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Chapter 5

Back in the chalet, Sharon makes herself a toasted cheese sandwich, grumbling about how slow the hotplate is to heat up using the generator, and how she knows she should’ve brought a microwave with her this time. She eats on the couch, the plate resting on her lap, and I sit by her feet, waiting for her to feed me cheesy crust. I’ve already eaten my own food and tested the new dog treats—one tastes like chicken, and the other is meatier, chewier, and if I knew what I’d done to get that reward, I’d do it again, many times over.

Cooking isn’t Sharon’s favorite pastime. Reading is. She often says cooking is for chefs, and if women are supposed to do it, they’d have been born with a stash of recipes inside their head. Often, when her energy levels is low, she replaces dinner with potato chips and salsa, scoffing an entire family bag and licking the dip from her fingers when it’s all gone. “Lucky you can’t talk, eh, Dill,” she says, pursing her lips in my direction. “I bet you’d sn…