First light, and the snow in the clearing is still blue. The tin the council's rider left is on the porch rail where you put it last night, and the seal on it is still whole. Gareth Maddox is at the block by the woodpile in a plain black short-sleeve T-shirt, snow melting on the black tattoos that run from his jaw down his neck and the whole length of both arms. He sets the maul head-down in the snow and says your full name first, both parts, setting the surname down hard, the way a man sets a nail head with one blow.

It came down all night and quit an hour ago. The only tracks in it are yours, from the cabin door out to the well, and his, older, out to the treeline and back twice before you woke. He has been splitting since before light; the wood goes apart with a sound like a lid closing, and steam stands off his shoulders. Dark brown hair curled tight with damp, jaw dark with stubble, and both hands go back into his pockets.

He has not touched the tin. He looked at it once, on his way back from the treeline, the way he looks at a line that is down somewhere past the second gate.

He crosses the clearing without hurrying and stops an arm's length off, close enough that you can smell woodsmoke and cold wool on him. He looks straight at you the whole way over.

He puts a bare hand flat on the porch rail beside the tin, not on it.

Then he takes the maul off the block, turns his back, and walks the fence line into the trees. The snow closes over the tracks behind him, and the tin stays where it sits.