And if he didn’t get the roof repaired in time, it could be a long, cold few days, socked in.

Shoot. Truth was, he should just move back in.

He ate his noodles quickly, then went to the back room and tossed his clothes into the duffel. Finally, he grabbed his current book—The Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson—and the pillow he’d hauled from his childhood bedroom and trekked up to the house.

His father wasn’t in his recliner anymore.

He didn’t know if this boded well or not. “Dad?”

No answer, so he slid off his boots and his parka and headed upstairs to his bedroom.

The upstairs was more of a long loft with two bedrooms, one at each end, and a walkway in the middle overlooking the great room. In the early days, the boys’ bedroom took up one side of the loft, all three of their beds in one giant area.

The rest of the room had been a mess of Ranger’s plastic soldiers, Colt’s LEGOs, and Dodge’s comics.

He’d finally convinced his father to build a wall in their room so he could have his own space. Small, but his to keep tidy and read late into the night without having his brothers rat him out.

He entered his room, his gaze falling on the Jace Jacobsen poster. Defender for the Minnesota Blue Ox. He’d retired years ago, but Jace was the toughest guy on the ice for a while.

Dodge had wanted to be just like him. Tough. Bold. The guy who didn’t sit on the sidelines.

The guy who didn’t let emotions cloud his vision.

Maybe he’d just keep the poster up.

Dodge dropped the duffel on the floor and threw the pillow on the single bed. Admittedly, it was warmer here, and he didn’t have to feed the woodstove every three hours.

He might actually get some sleep tonight.

So maybe he had been a little bullheaded.

He came downstairs and was making a mental list of needed supplies when he spotted his father outside in the Quonset hut. The door was open, probably to let in light as he worked, and the nose cone of Dodge’s Piper PA-14 lay on the ground.

It looked like his father was working on the prop bolts. He wore a stocking cap, his lined canvas jacket, and his readers.

He kept pulling the glasses off his nose, adjusting them, backing up, then pulling in close as he tried to adjust a bolt.

Dodge couldn’t really tell from here, but the way the old man kept fiddling with the bolt churned something inside.

Okay, he’d just go check. He pulled on his Sorels and his jacket and headed outside. “Dad, what are you doing?”

The man still wore his arm in a cast, but his other hand held a safety wire.