Part 4
The mouse came out again on the far side of the step, and this time Poppy did not leap. She waited until the small gray body committed itself to the open snow, then struck with a quickness that surprised even her. The meal was barely enough to fill her mouth, but it kept her alive through that day and into the next.
By early March, the thaw came in fits. Afternoons softened the snow; nights sealed it again into hard, glittering crust. Poppy moved less now. She spent long hours under the wool blanket in the gazebo, waking only when the sparrow’s quick feet tapped across the table above her or when hunger pulled her toward the foundation.
Forty miles away, in Madison, Ethan Miller sat across from Grant Whitaker in a coffee shop near the title company and tried to ignore the uneasy feeling that had been growing since the closing appointment.
The cottage purchase had moved fast. Ethan and his wife, Maggie, had been looking for a weekend place for years, something small enough to fix up themselves and close enough for Saturday mornings. Grant had offered the Baraboo property below market, explaining that Claire’s medical bills were urgent and he needed the sale done cleanly.
Ethan had believed him. He had even felt sorry for him.
Grant slid a folder across the table. “Deed’s recorded. Keys are in there. Gate key too.”
Ethan reached for the folder, but Grant kept two fingers on it for one extra second.
“There’s one thing,” Grant said. “My wife had a cat out there.”
Ethan looked up. “Had?”
“It’s still on the property, as far as I know.”
The coffee shop noise thinned around them. Ethan set his paper cup down without drinking from it. “As far as you know?”
Grant put on his wool coat, buttoning it with care. “I haven’t been out since November. Claire’s been in and out of the hospital, and I’m not driving through unplowed county roads over a cat. The place is yours now. Handle it however you want.”
Ethan stared at him. “You left an indoor cat at a closed-up cottage all winter?”
Grant’s face tightened, not with guilt but irritation at being questioned. “It had shelter. I left food.”
“In November?”
Grant tossed a few bills on the table and stood. “Enjoy the property.”
He left before Ethan could answer.
For several seconds, Ethan did not move. He saw the dates arrange themselves in his mind: November, December, January, February. He pictured the seasonal road under snow, the locked gate, the empty cottage. Then he grabbed the folder and walked out so fast the chair bumped the table behind him.
He called Maggie from the parking lot.
“She’s probably gone,” he said when he finished telling her. “I know that. I’m not pretending this is likely.”
Maggie was quiet on the other end for a moment. “But you’re going.”
“I have to check.”
“Then take the old skis from your dad’s garage. The road won’t be plowed.”
Ethan drove home, loaded the wide wooden cross-country skis his father had used for deer season, and headed north with a carrier, two towels, a thermal blanket, and a can of cat food he bought at a gas station because it was the only place open along the way. The county road was clear until the turnoff for the seasonal cabins. After that, the pavement disappeared beneath a wide white field.
He parked at the end of the plowed stretch and stepped into the cold. The air burned his throat. He strapped the skis over his boots and pushed off, awkward at first, then steadier as the old movements returned to his body. Each mile felt longer than it should have. Sweat gathered under his coat while his fingers went numb inside his gloves.
The cottage road looked abandoned when he reached it. Snow buried the mailboxes almost to their lids, and the rooflines of the cabins rose like dark shapes from a white sheet. Ethan counted driveways, searching for number twenty-two, but half the signs were hidden.
A sparrow darted from a bare birch and shook loose a puff of snow as it landed on a low branch. Ethan followed the movement with his eyes and saw the rusted metal numbers on a gate below it.
22.
He dug through the snow with gloved hands until the latch cleared, then squeezed through the narrow opening. The porch held an untouched layer of snow. No pawprints. No marks near the front door. He tried the key anyway, opened the cottage, and found only cold rooms, dust, and the stale smell of a place shut too long.
“Come on,” he said quietly, standing in the empty kitchen. “Where would you go?”
Outside, the sparrow chirped once from the back of the yard.
Ethan turned toward the sound. At the far edge of the property stood a weathered gazebo, half buried, its door hanging open by a few inches. The gap was narrow, dark, and just wide enough for a bird. Or for something desperate enough to keep coming back…
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