Chapter 8
“We need a bigger tent,” Ansel groused Tuesday afternoon, as they hauled another load of firewood across the field to the cabin.
“Wait until we have to cut down a tree,” Hugh responded, dropping his end of the branches. He’d sacrificed one of his summer T-shirts, cutting it into strips to lash the branches together for easier carrying. “Easier being a bit of a misnomer,” he’d grumbled after their first load.
“It’s still a hell of a lot better than by the armload,” Ansel had replied, flexing his hands.
Now, Ansel set down his end, saying, “I’m sure there’s still more than enough big branches, out there. Let’s save cutting trees until it becomes vitally necessary.”
Hugh arched an eyebrow. “Like when the branches are buried under two feet of snow?”
“If then,” Ansel replied. “I
