In the evening Wrench wraps strips of moose inside broadleaf plantain and garnishes it with chicken mushroom. He presents the foraged tacos to Kurt with a mugful of steeped wintergreen, and looks for a time truly proud. Even on the small plate the helping looks particularly meager, but the quick jaunt into the woods surrounding Jim's cabin has proven profitable and he hesitates to set himself gone for a longer stretch. Wrench knows that Kurt doesn't need him there to hover like a shadow and fawn like a housemaid, but setting himself to a tangible task with a material outcome feels like it gives something to the day. A purpose, perhaps, if such a word can rightfully be used in conjunction with this place.

Wrench thinks that by the time Jim comes around, he can have replenished the stock on most things, save the gin. Maybe he can even add to the stockpile, if he spends a little more time each day up the path toward Lake Tomie. But the cabin has become a space to recuperate and wait. Even when he and Kurt are simply existing in parallel -- watching the television, reading Jim's worn copy of The Art of War, or organizing the cupboards -- the loneliness doesn't feel quite so profound.

Bellies fed, he gestures to Kurt's shirt in indication of the bandages beneath, wanting to check them for their saturation. It's no coincidence that Wrench has remained the same level of dressed since his arrival: thermal long-sleeved shirt, long-sleeved button up, jeans and boots.