The last stick of firewood. He held it up in the light of the open stove door. There was nothing special about it: a quarter-round, four inches across and eighteen long with a stump an inch in diameter sticking off one side. It felt so light. Dry from seasons curing in the Texas heat. How did this stick come to be the last one, and not some other stick? What was the point in such questions? This log was the last one because it was at the bottom of the pile, and in feeding the fire, his hand fell on it last. That's all.
He thought of saving the log, waiting, finding the optimal moment to use it. Once he put it in the fire, his labor would be done. He wouldn't survive another trip outside. Anyway, they would have to all wake up, open the doors, let the heat out. Even with the fire, and the insulation, and the double-pane windows, it was so cold now near the walls, the door. As it had gotten colder outside, he had had to stoke the fire hotter keep them warm.
He was so tired. She had made him promise that they would take shifts keeping watch and tending the fire, but once he saw how little wood was left, he had just let her sleep. He was exhausted too by the boys and their questions. Exhausted from turning away when they got curious, lest his feelings show, lest he frighten them. Then he'd listen as she somehow, miraculously, calmed their fears, diverted them, changed the subject, got them laughing and playing again.
Now the boys were sleeping, spooned together in one sleeping bag, while she and he had zipped their two bags together to make a double. The four of them lay in a nest of every blanket and cushion in the house, as close as they could get to the stove.
He put the log in the fire.
With the poker, he adjusted the pile to make a heat chamber between the big round backlog and a pile of smaller logs burning in front, arranging them to make a narrow space for the hot air to rise and suck the oxygen up from below. Then he checked the vents and closed the stove door.
He cranked the flashlight as much as he could, then he slid into the bag with her and spooned up to her back, tucking in the edges around them. She adjusted herself in her sleep, accommodating him with a pleasant meaningless little moan, without waking. He tried not to think. He was so tired.
