On the fourth trip to the creek, you notice the willow branches Fritz brought are perfect for a roof frame.
You lash them with twine you unraveled from old sacks.
You create ribs over the rectangle, like you’re building the skeleton of a beast that will protect your children.
That night, you cook thin porridge on the iron stove under the wagon.
Greta falls asleep with the bowl in her lap, mouth sticky, cheeks smudged.
Fritz stays awake beside you, watching the stars.
“Mom,” he whispers, “what if the wind takes it?”
You look at the dark outline of your half-built sod walls and say, “Then we build it again.”
Your voice doesn’t break, and Fritz’s shoulders loosen like you just gave him permission to breathe.
The next day, Hinrich Folkmeer returns.
He stands at the edge of your pit, silent, eyes scanning the walls you’ve raised.
His face doesn’t change much, but you see something shift in the way he holds himself, like his certainty is getting uncomfortable.
He clears his throat.
