Leni rushed around to the side of the cabin, lifted the barrel’s makeshift lid, and poured what was left of her water into the barrel. The split second between her upending the bucket and the sound of the water splashing in told her the barrel was about three-quarters full.

Leni was shaking so hard it took two tries for her to unlatch the door.

“I’m back,” she said, stepping into the cabin, her whole body shaking.

“Shut up, Leni,” Dad snapped.

Mama stood in front of Dad. She was unsteady-looking, dressed in ragged sweats and a big sweater. “Hey, there, baby girl,” she said. “Hang up your parka and take off your boots.”

“I’m talking to you, Cora,” Dad said.

Leni heard anger in his voice, saw her mother flinch.

“You have to take the rice back. Tell Large Marge we can’t pay for it,” he said. “And the pilot bread and powdered milk, too.”

“But … you haven’t gotten a moose yet,” Mama said. “We need—”

“It’s all my fault, is it?” Dad shouted.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. But winter’s bearing down on us. We need more food than we have, and our money—”

“You think I don’t know we need money?” He swiped at the chair in front of him, sent it tumbling and cracking to the floor.

The sudden wildness in his eyes, the showing of the whites, scared Leni. She took a step backward.

Mama went to him, touched his face, tried to gentle him. “Ernt, baby, we’ll figure it out.”

He yanked back and headed for the door. Grabbing his parka from its place on the hook by the window, he pulled the door open, let in the sweeping cold, and slammed it shut behind him. A moment later, the VW bus engine roared to life; headlights stabbed through the window, turned Mama golden white.

“It’s the weather,” Mama said, lighting a cigarette, watching him drive away. Her beautiful skin looked sallow in the headlights’ glow, almost waxen.

“It’s going to get worse,” Leni said. “Every day is darker and colder.”

“Yeah,” Mama said, looking as scared as Leni suddenly felt. “I know.”

*   *   *