Warmth and light immediately enfolded her. Her breath, which she’d seen only seconds before, disappeared. She heard the hum of the generator, which powered the lights. The little black woodstove—the one that had always been here—pumped out heat.
Music blared from a big portable radio on the new dining room table. Some disco song by the Bee Gees was cranked up. The cabin smelled of baking bread and roasting meat.
You could always tell when Dad was gone. Everything was easier and more relaxed in his absence.
Large Marge and Mr. Walker sat at the big rectangular dining table Dad had made last summer, playing cards.
“Hey, Leni. Make sure they’re not cheating,” Mama yelled from the kitchen alcove, which had been redesigned piecemeal over the years—a propane oven had been hauled in, as well as a refrigerator. Mr. Walker had tiled the counter and put in a better dry sink. There was still no running water and no bathroom in the cabin. Large Marge had built a rack for the dishes they bought when they went to the Salvation Army in Homer.
“Oh, they’re cheating,” Leni said, smiling.
“Not me,” Large Marge said, popping a chunk of reindeer sausage in her mouth. “I don’t need to cheat to beat these two. Come on over, Leni. Give me a run for my money.”
Chuckling, Mr. Walker got up, his chair screeching across the plank floor. “Looks like someone bagged a sheep.” He pulled a big white plastic sheet out from underneath the sink and spread it out on the floor.
Leni thumped her load down onto the plastic and knelt beside it. “I did,” she said. “Up by Porter Ridge.” She opened the bag and pulled out the field-dressed carcass.
Mr. Walker sharpened an ulu, handed it to her.
Leni set about her task of cutting the haunch into steaks and roasts and tearing away the silvery skeins from the meat. Once it had seemed weird to butcher meat in the house, on a sheet of plastic. No more. This was life in the winter months.
Mama came out of the kitchen, smiling. In the winter, it seemed, she was always smiling. She had bloomed here in Alaska, just as Leni had. Ironically, they both felt safest in the winters, when the world was at its smallest and most dangerous. With Dad gone, they could breathe easily. They were the same height now, she and Leni. Their protein-heavy diet had made them both as lean and lithe as ballerinas.
Mama took her place at the table and said, “I’m shooting the moon this time. Just letting you get your strategy set.”
“All the way?” Mr. Walker said. “Or just most of the way, like usual?”
Mama laughed. “You’ll eat those words, Tom.” She started dealing.
Leni did some pretending in the winter, just as she did in the summer. Like now, she pretended not to notice how Mama and Mr. Walker looked at each other, how careful they were never to actually touch each other. How Mama sometimes sighed when she mentioned his name.
Some things were dangerous; they all knew that.
Leni bent to her task. She was concentrating so keenly on making her cuts that it was a moment before she noticed the sound of an engine. Then she saw a flash of headlights come through the window, illuminating the cabin in a staccato burst.
Moments later, the cabin door opened.
Dad walked in. He wore a faded, frayed trucker’s hat, pulled low on his brow, his long beard and mustache untended. After months on the pipeline, he had the sinewy, hard look of a man who drank too much and ate too little. The harsh Alaska weather had given his skin a lined, leathery look.
Mama shot to her feet, looking instantly anxious. “Ernt! You’re home early! You should have told me you were coming.”
“Yeah,” he said, looking at Mr. Walker. “I can see why you’d want to know.”
“It’s just a hand of cards with neighbors,” Mr. Walker said, pushing to his feet. “But we’ll leave you to your reunion.” He walked past Dad （who didn’t take a step backward, forced Mr. Walker to change course）， took his parka from the hook by the door, and put it on. “Thanks, gals.”
When he was gone, Mama stared at Dad, her face pale, her mouth parted slightly. She had a breathless, worried look about her.
Large Marge stood up. “I can’t get my stuff together quick enough, so I’ll just stay tonight, if you don’t mind. I’m sure you don’t.”
Dad didn’t spare Large Marge a glance. He had eyes only for Mama. “Far be it for me to tell a fat woman what to do.”
Large Marge laughed and walked away from the dining table. She plopped onto the sofa Dad had bought from a hotel going out of business in Anchorage, put her slippered feet up on the new coffee table.