Chapter 6
“I feel like a golem,” Ansel groused late Sunday morning.
Hugh glanced at him and burst out laughing, even though he figured he looked just as bad. They had dumped what felt like a ton of water on the mud a few feet away from the cabin, then Ansel had photographed Hugh mixing the grass into it, using his hands and the spade to make the daub, as Ansel had told him it was called. Then he’d put down the camera to help. Now, they were stuffing the daub into the open spaces between the boards of the cabin’s wall, letting it dry, then adding more until they were certain there were no spots left to let in the wind and weather.
Ansel seemed to have gotten as much of the mud on him as in the cracks—at least on his arms and hands and feet, since, like Hugh, he was barefooted.
“If you’r
