The first time he tried to split wood, he nearly broke his hand.
The axe was heavier than it looked. It slipped on the downswing, glancing off the log and biting into the dirt. The jolt shot up his arm, leaving it numb and useless for several minutes.
He wanted to throw it.
Instead, he picked it up again.
By sunset, he had split six logs. Uneven, clumsy pieces—but they burned. That was enough.
That night, Eliza sat close to the fire, watching the flames with wide eyes.
“Is it going to be okay?” she asked.
Thomas didn’t answer right away.
He looked at the fire, at the crooked logs he’d cut, at the sparks that leapt and vanished into the chimney.
“Yes,” he said finally.
He had no idea if it was true.
The days settled into a rhythm that felt less like living and more like endurance.
Wake before light. Feed the animals. Check the fences. Coax his mother to eat. Keep Eliza occupied—she followed him everywhere now, a small shadow with too many questions.
He learned quickly because he had to.
He learned which boards in the barn were weak and how to step around them. How to stretch flour by mixing it with ground oats. How to mend a tear well enough that it wouldn’t show at first glance. How to keep his voice steady even when exhaustion clawed at his throat.
Mistakes cost too much.
Once, he forgot to latch the chicken coop properly. A fox got in. By morning, three hens were gone.
Thomas buried them himself, his jaw tight, his movements sharp.
That night, he double-checked every latch on the farm.
Twice.
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