“On Monday, we’ll get back on track and finish up the house,” Nate said, all businesslike, barely making eye contact with her. “We can polyurethane the floors, get the walls and trim primed. I’ll call the building supply place and order the roof shingles first thing.”

“Okay,” she’d agreed.

“Cold weather’s coming,” Nate reminded her. “We don’t want to be in that trailer when the first snow hits. And we don’t want to have to move in here when it’s still a construction zone.”

“Agreed,” Helen said.

Nate went off into the woods with his camera and field guides. She drove to the hardware store and bought a handle for the ax head, a special file, and a round hockey-puck-like stone to sharpen it.

Helen spent the day in the yard, working on her ax—removing the rust, sharpening it, and rehanging it by following instructions she’d found online. It was satisfying work, and by late afternoon, she had a beautiful ax. An ax with history. Hattie’s ax.

. . .

Helen was sitting on the front steps of the house, sipping a bottle of beer and admiring her handiwork, when Nate came up the path from the bog.

As he got closer, she could see he was wet and filthy, his clothing muddy and torn in places. His hair, badly in need of a trim, stuck up at odd angles.

Who looks like the crazy one now? Helen thought, hating herself for thinking it.

“What’s that?” he asked, staring at the ax.

“It’s a hewing ax,” she said, holding it out so he could see better.

“Where’d it come from?” he asked.

“Olive found an old ax head somewhere out in the woods and gave it to me.” She was careful not to mention Hattie or her house, or the possibility that the ax had once been hers. “She knows I like old things. I spent the day fixing it up—it’s good as new!”

He nodded, then reached to take the camera off from around his neck. “Great. You need to see this,” he said.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I got it,” he said with satisfaction.

“Got what?”

“A picture! Of the deer. I followed her into the woods, trailed her all morning, and at last, I caught up, got close enough to get some good shots.”

He turned the camera, pushed some buttons, looked down at the screen on the back. “Look,” he said.

His hands were trembling, just slightly. His nails, she noticed, needed trimming. There was dirt underneath them.

Helen peered at the tiny screen on Nate’s Nikon, trying to make out what she saw, which was little more than a white blur in front of trees—but a blur that didn’t seem deerlike at all. It was tall, narrow. As if he’d shot it from the front and the deer was coming right at him, charging him.