Jack’s shoulders deflate, and she drops her head into her hands. It’s clear she’s run out of ways to try to spin this. It’s freezing, we’re starving, we have very little heat and no water and (what is somehow the least of our worries) only one fucking bed. Even the unflappable can be flapped in circumstances like this.

Jack’s falling apart, but for some reason, I feel a sudden rush of calm. I take a steadying breath. This is not the worst thing that has ever happened to me. It’s not even the worst thing that has happened to me this week. We can figure this out. “There’s a fireplace,” I say sagely, “and that means there must be firewood.”

Which is how we find ourselves, five minutes later, standing a few feet from the back porch. Me holding up the flashlight on my phone, Jack holding an axe, a wedge of wood propped in front of us. There is a pile of wood against the side of the house, covered with a tarp. They’re all big, hulking pieces, none of the small stuff we’re 80 percent positive you need for starting a fire, though neither of us knows for sure.

“How have you never chopped wood before?” I ask her as she grips the axe with an uncharacteristic lack of confidence.

“When would I have chopped wood before?” she practically shouts. Her panic hasn’t faded yet, despite my genius plan to start a fire. “I had a very privileged upbringing!”

“But you wear so much flannel.”

“Everyone wears flannel! It’s Portland!”

“And the Carhartt jacket.”

“What is your issue with my jacket?”

“And I’ve heard you talk about building a chicken coop.”

“With a table saw.” She brandishes the axe in my direction. “And why am I the one who has to chop the wood?”

“Because you are the butch lesbian.”

She glares. “That’s all I am to you, isn’t it? A butch lesbian stereotype.”

“No, you’re very complex and multifaceted, but your arm muscles are objectively bigger than mine, so you’re just going to have to do the stereotypical thing here.”

“Okay. Okay,” she mutters, psyching herself up. She sets down the axe for a minute and peels off her bulky ski jacket so she has better range of motion. This reveals the stereotypical flannel she has on underneath. “Oh, fuck you,” she says before I can comment. Then she raises the axe above her head.

“Wait!” I call out. “Your hands! I think you should space them out, like on a baseball bat. I’ve seen that before.”

Jack repositions her hands on the axe handle, then raises her arms again. I take a step back and watch the forceful arc of the axe as it collides with the chunk of wood.

And oh. Oh my goodness.