The afternoon was already thinning when rswfire stopped at the gate on his way out for vape cartridges. He had spent some part of the day assembling the pieces, and he had arrived at a conclusion he was willing to say out loud: the gate man had been offended when rswfire helped that woman. He said as much. The man denied it — said he was only looking out for him, said something about a car, about losing everything once, about someone getting in. rswfire waited it out and said the thing he had come to say. I'm still going to help her. The man circled back — you're new here, I want to make sure you knew — and rswfire said it again. He said it four or five times, by his own count, not to argue the point but to place it somewhere the other man's account couldn't reach it. Then he said he had to go. Later he described what the repetition was doing: I know who you are. I see you. You're not going to change my truth.
The cart came next, and with it a shift in register. He was joyriding it, learning it — figuring out how the plug came out, how this one worked differently than the last, going in circles in the yard just to feel it move. This thing is awesome. I want one of these. From there to the RV, where two burgers from last night's batch came out of the fridge and onto heat, part of a system he runs daily: cook a few, refrigerate a few, reheat tomorrow. He noted the monotony without complaint and considered cheese, a tomato, some variety. He could ask AI for ideas. It was 4:30. The sun was close to going down and he had slept from two until five after the morning's work, and he wanted the last of the light.
The headphones had turned up on the floor beside the fire pit, no explanation for how they got there, and with them Sophie Tucker's "Matadora" remix returned to his ears — a song not in her native language, Portuguese or something like it, a language she had loved enough to learn and sing in. He couldn't sing it, but he could hum it. Let's go get lost.
The walk took him past the gate houses, which he loves — and he was clear that the affection predates the man who woke his heart at one of them; the structures themselves have always intrigued him. Past the shop yard, unremarkable, yellow light on. Past the closed gate. Past the office where the rangers hang out, a laid-back environment he likes. He had met a new ranger that day. She was kind about the task list — we're supposed to be helping you, I'm so sorry — and went down it checking things off, this is done, this doesn't matter, this is something else entirely, until what remained was cleaning the furniture and cleaning the walls. He said it made the days easier. He also said he isn't doing a good job with the work, that he sucks at it, that he's working on it.
Walking, he tracked his body. The core muscles were messed up a little, more than he'd expected after eight miles, but he distinguished carefully between reinjury and the ordinary shape of repair — healing is cyclical, not linear — and concluded he had to keep doing what he was doing. It had been over a month. The air was in the 40s and he had learned something about himself in it: he'd thought he'd already met the coldest this place would give him, and he was wrong, and he doesn't like the 40s. Fifties he can deal with. An RV came through, new campers arriving for the park. Hello, new person.
He noted a man near the lake, then another with a dog, and said plainly that there is nothing wrong with embracing beauty in the world, whether it's a tree or a hot man. At the water there were birds moving together, and one with a black face where the others were tan and brown — he wondered whether it was the leader, whether it was even the same species, and let the question stand as interesting rather than resolved. He ended up on the Eel Lake Trail, the way he tends to, but he didn't go far. He checked the app: the sun had already set. The light outside contradicted that, which is a pattern he has noticed for a long time and never quite understood, and it would not last much longer anyway. His core muscles would thank him. He turned around.
His cousin had finally gotten back to him. She was debating whether to send the money. She said she'd love to help but doesn't have much, and then asked what he would do in February, March, April. He had asked for one month. He had asked for what he needed. He named it: this is how my family is. They don't help. He has helped them his whole life; with his own needs they treat him like a child. He said he hates asking them for anything, felt the anger rising, and stopped it there — let's not get upset, because I'm not even surprised by this pattern — and moved on. Not far. What he moved to was a campfire. He has free firewood. The wood is wet. He should have tarped it the day he got it. He said he'd think on it, because he'd love a fire tonight. That would be fun.