"Oatmeal. Canned peaches if we didn't finish them. The last of the crackers. And I found a tin of cinnamon that hasn't turned entirely to dust. Consider it festive."
"Luxury," she said. "Horizon once sent me to a hotel in Zurich where the breakfast came with three kinds of honey and a man whose only job was to explain them. I liked this better already."
They ate at the small table. Ellen's ankle was purple-green at the edges of the wrap, swollen but better than the night before in the way that morning sometimes softens what night exaggerates. She could put a little weight on it if she was careful and dishonest with herself about how careful. Ray watched her hop to the chair and did not offer to carry her again; he seemed to understand that pride was part of the healing, and that offering too much help could become another kind of weather. The fair isle hat sat on the bunk post like a small surrendered flag. She wore the cream turtleneck and had put the white fur-trimmed jacket back on against the morning chill that lived in the corners of log walls regardless of the fire's opinion.