The boy Tavin slipped out of the tool house first, his head lowered as he squeezed past the weathered doorframe carrying a wooden bucket of grey, soap-clouded water and soaked linen strips toward the water tank water chute. He glanced up at Kezra as he passed, his young face solemn and respectful. Then he gave her a quick, sharp nod before hurrying down the path with his burden. The water sloshing against the cedar staves smelled faintly of wood ash, vinegar, and boiled mountain yarrow tea. The standard astringent wash used across mountain camps to cleanse weeping ulcerations and prevent proud flesh from choking a poorly set wound.
Kezra stood in the center of the yard, her boots resting in the fine grey gravel. She took in the small domestic territory her brother had inhabited for eleven months. It was a space shaped entirely by physical limitation, patient adaptation, and disciplined work. Along the sunny southern wall of the tool house, beneath the broad roof edges of split larch, a three-tiered wooden drying rack held bundles of dried yarrow stalks, peeled elder bark, and small unglazed clay pots of pine-pitch salve. Supplies for treating chronic skin ulcers, easing bruised joints, and sealing cracked heel calluses against the mountain damp.
