The warmth of the fire barely penetrates, barely reaches my flesh through the clothes. And still I thaw: hands warmer now, toes cold, legs wanting more than a tartan flannel. And my throat is salty, chewy phlegm surrounded by walls of red. I am home, and home is cold. Warming slowly to our presence, inviting us back to an unelectrical embrace.
No electricity. Too much wind for it to keep flowing. Dark nights. Flashlights. Waterless. No pump, you see.
How dependent we are on the undependable.