3
Annie
I’d gotten over my fear of fire for the most part. Enough I could light kindling and cook over an open flame again. I just took my time and extra care and wore oven mitts when getting anywhere near a hot pot. I also never threw plastic into the fire like Junior had done that night, leaving a glob of melted s**t that had stuck to my hand—almost ruined my hand.
Twisting off the cap of one of the small bottles of wine I’d brought along, I ambled toward the recliner Dad had brought to the homestead the summer before. Old bones and all that s**t, he’d complained even though the man could still work the homestead like a twenty-something guy.
A perfect chair to sit in, prop my feet up, and open my MacBook before darkness took over the sky.
The cabin’s interior had changed a bit over
