Roy inhales deeply.

I’m sure he smells the smoke, too. I caught the faint scent when I stepped out of my house today. At first, I thought it might be a nearby bonfire, but the fire restrictions are so severe right now, no one’s burning anything. The radio confirmed that the smoke is coming from the raging fires, more than a hundred miles south of us, carried up on the wind.

Jonah was cursing on his way out this morning. Wind will wreak havoc on their firefighting efforts, fanning the flames that have already laid destruction to almost sixty thousand acres of the Swan Lake area. The only upside to it is that it should help with air quality, which has been deemed “unhealthy.”

Roy frowns at my face, my hair, my clothes—a pair of jeans and a pale pink T-shirt I haven’t worn in too long. “What are you all gussied up for?”

I assume he’s referring to the makeup I put on and the curler I ran through my hair to add some beachy waves. “Your appointment, remember?”

“What, your pilot not good enough anymore? You lookin’ to trade in for a doctor already?”

I afford him a flat look. “You know that we’re in the twenty-first century, right? Women don’t make an effort in their appearance to find a husband. They can also look good because they want to, for themselves.”

He makes a sound but says nothing.

I hold out a plate of strawberry muffins. “Here. I baked these last night. I think they actually turned out.”

Roy regards the plate a moment before accepting it. “You sound surprised.”

“Let’s say my track record for baking isn’t good. But Jonah seemed to like them.” He ate three on his way out.

“I don’t eat in the mornin’.” Roy’s steely eyes dart to mine a moment before shifting back to the plate. “But maybe I’ll try one in a bit and let you know if it’s awful.”

“I knew I could count on you. By the way, do I want to ask how that stir fry I brought last night was?” I’ve been bringing him dinner every night so far. He stopped complaining about me going into his kitchen to drop it off, and the container from the day before is always washed and waiting for me to collect.

That tiny smirk that hints at amusement touches Roy’s mouth. “Not awful.”

“Well … good.” At least I seem to be getting the knack for cooking. “So, we have about an hour to get all the morning chores finished before we leave for your appointment.” Palmer is fifty minutes away, on the other side of Wasilla. I brace myself, preparing for Roy’s stubborn refusal, ready to wave my phone in the air and threaten a call to Muriel.

“There’s half a pot of coffee. Help yourself if you want one.” With that, he ducks back in the house, leaving me smiling at the simple gesture of hospitality, something I would have assumed Roy incapable of only days ago.

“I don’t know what’s takin’ them so goddamn long,” Roy growls. “That idiot technician damn near killed me takin’ that X-ray, and now they leave me sittin’ out here with my thumb up my ass all damn day long. This was a waste of time.”

I shoot an apologetic look to the glowering woman who sits across from us. Thankfully, her son, who can’t be more than seven and has his leg in a full cast, doesn’t seem to be paying attention to anything besides his iPad screen. “It’s been a half hour, Roy,” I say with forced patience. When Simon broke his collarbone, I sat in the emergency waiting room with him for seven hours. Had my father gone through with chemotherapy, the doctor was recommending an eight-hour-a-day, five-days-a-week program. A thirty-minute wait is a blink in time.

I want to tell Roy all these things, but I know it won’t make a difference. “Let me go up there and ask them. You stay here.” I drop my voice to a whisper, “And maybe stop swearing in front of small children.”

I leave Roy scowling as I head to the reception desk. The nurse is busy on the phone, but the doctor who has been tending to Roy’s arm—a white man in his fifties with bushy eyebrows and a pinched nose—comes around the corner, a folder tucked under his arm.

“Hi, excuse me, I was wondering if Roy Donovan’s X-ray results are ready yet? He’s getting a little … antsy.”

The doctor offers a tight-lipped smile. “He’s not too happy to be here, is he? I was just coming to get him, actually. Tell me, has your father been taking it easy?”

“She’s not my daughter!” Roy barks directly behind me.

I startle and shoot Roy an exasperated look for sneaking up on me. “I’m his neighbor. But no, he hasn’t been taking it easy at all. I’ve had to fight with him every day to let me help around his place.” There is something satisfying about tattling on Roy, especially when I watch the deep frown of disapproval that forms on the doctor’s brow.

“I had a feeling. There’s more swelling than I hoped to see by this point—”

“Well, I ain’t comin’ back here again, doc, so you better figure it out,” Roy snaps.

The doctor shares a knowing look with me. “I was going to say that I think we can set your arm today. Has he been taking the medication I prescribed to manage the pain?”

“Yeah,” Roy says at the same time I say, “The seal on the bottle hasn’t even been broken.”

If looks could kill, the withering gaze Roy spears me with would have them wheeling me to the morgue. “What, are you spying on me?” he growls.

“You sure she’s not your daughter?” The doctor chuckles, unfazed by Roy’s hostile tone. “All right. We’ll get you casted up and on your way.”

It’s midafternoon by the time we pass the sign marking Trapper’s Crossing. The ride has been quiet, Roy taking turns scowling at the road and the navy-blue fiberglass cast that stretches from his knuckles all the way to just below his armpit.

“Did the doctor say how long you’d have to wear it?” I dare ask.

“Six to eight weeks, if I don’t do anything stupid.”

“You mean, like refuse help from everyone around you?” I say lightly but quickly add, “That’s nothing. Your arm could have been shattered. If you needed surgery, you would have been in that thing for months. Don’t worry, you’ll be carving your wooden figurines again in no time.”

He doesn’t respond, so I assume that’s the end of our conversation. I adjust the dial of the radio to find a station with better music.

“And whittling.”

“Hmm?”

“Some of them aren’t carved, they’re whittled. There’s a difference.”

I wait a moment, and when he doesn’t elaborate, I ask, “What’s the difference?”

“With carving, you use different tools. Chisels and gouges, and lathes. With whittling, you only use a knife.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say slowly.

“Well … now you do.”

“When did you start doing that?”

“A long time ago.” Again, that long pause, where I assume the conversation is done, and then he offers, “I was eight. My daddy was sittin’ on the porch after supper, with his pipe and a fresh piece of basswood. He let me give it a try. Stabbed myself here.” He holds out his left hand to display the jagged scar on his palm.