"What's that?"

"Making small talk."

"Kibitzing," he said, testing the word out, then grinned at me as he shouldered his backpack. "Thanks. I gotta go."

I spent that night restless, to be honest. In storm country you learn not to fret when someone's telephone has died or they are otherwise not where they ought to be, but most of the time you also know that they've survived other storms. Lucas, as far as I knew, might never have seen a field of unplowed snow before coming to Low Ferry. Living out in the wilds, with a disconnected phone and no car, no understanding of the need to run his taps to keep the pipes from bursting or knock the icicles off the eaves to keep them from falling around his ears, he was not necessarily safe.

I woke early, not that I'd slept very soundly to begin with – it was more that I finally gave up, around six in the morning, on getting back to sleep. I washed and made myself some breakfast, keeping one eye on the clock; if I was efficient and the roads were safe, I could be at The Pines at a reasonable hour.

After I ate, I sorted out the paperwork from Marjorie, stapling the receipts together and tucking them inside the book next to a flattened bay leaf. After a second's consideration, I wrapped up the book in brown paper and tied it with twine.

Book and papers securely tucked in my backpack, I let myself out the back of the store and smiled cheerfully in the cold. There might be snow on the walk home. I liked a walk in winter, with the air sharp and the snow crunching under my boots.

It was easy enough going, as long as I stayed on the pavement or the asphalt. Once I reached the dirt road out to The Pines I stuck to the edges, where the ground was firmer and the raised ridges kept me out of puddles that would be dangerous ice by nightfall.

I didn't stray into the field itself, however, until the cottage's kitchen door was well in sight and the road would have forced me around the hill before I reached the house. Spattered with mud to mid-calf, my boots crusted and my spirits high, I knocked on the door in the optimistic hope that there would be hot chocolate and a warm kitchen awaiting me. There was no reply. I tried the door, but it was locked.

It was past time most people would be awake, though he could have been sleeping. Still, I wanted to be sure before I tried the front door or had to walk back with the book still in my bag. I knocked again, and this time I heard a faint yell from elsewhere in the house. I waited while the lock clicked back in its mount and the door opened.

"Jesus," I said, "Did you die or something?"

Lucas smiled tiredly at me and rubbed his raw, chafed nose with the sharp angle of his wrist. "I know," he said. "Come in."

I used the door-jamb to knock the worst of the mud off my boots and left them on a mat inside.

"Try the living room – there's a fire," he said, gesturing to the tightly-shut door as he lit a burner on the stove.

"Is there a reason your kitchen is subzero?" I asked, taking the bag off my shoulder. Lucas picked up a carton of milk sitting on the windowsill and poured some into a pan, setting it on the burner.

"Power's out, heater's not working," he answered. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes. "It's all right – the living room's small and the fireplace puts out enough heat."

"Your heater's gas," I replied. "They all are in this part of the country. If your stove works, your heater should."

"Try it for yourself. It doesn't," he said, waving his hand at the metal grate set into the kitchen wall. I pulled the grate away and examined the mechanism.

"That's because your pilot light's out."

"Is that why?" he asked, intrigued. The look I gave him was probably more pity at his clear lack of common sense than anything else. He frowned. "I didn't know. I was going to ask next time I was in town. I've been sick, that's all."

"Yes, so I see," I answered. His skin was an unhealthy gray, eyes red-rimmed and nose a mass of chapped, irritated cracks. He coughed. "How long has your heat been out?"

"Only two days," he answered.

"And the power too? I'll have to look at your breaker next," I muttered.

"My what?"

"You'd better give me those matches," I said, holding out my hand for them. It didn't take long to re-light the pilot, though I was nervous about blowing something up the entire time. With a whoosh, the heater roared to life. Warmth poured into the chilly room from two vents in the floor, and I replaced the grating.

"That ought to take care of the rest of the house," I said, locating a small metal door in the opposite wall, the access hatch to the circuit box. When I opened the door, three of the switches were in the wrong position. I flipped them and the kitchen lights went on.

"That's all that was wrong? Those great big light switches?" he asked.

"Haven't you overloaded a circuit before?" I said. "You plug one thing in and the power goes out to the whole room?"

"No," he replied, looking vaguely guilty.

"Well, now you know," I said.

"Does one of those switches control the phone too?"

"No – your line's probably down, that's just bad luck," I replied. "I should have come to see you earlier – I knew you'd need help out here alone."

"Oh, is that why you're here?" he asked, and I realized that I had barged in without explaining why I was there in the first place. "I didn't realize there was so much involved in just keeping the power on."