Page 4 of S'more of Silas
"Of course." I hoist my tote bag higher on my shoulder, trying to look professional and writer-like instead of nervous. "An author never turns down free learning opportunities. That's practically in our code of ethics."
His mouth almost quirks at that. Almost a smile, but not quite. The kind of expression that makes me want to work harder to see the real thing.
He gestures toward the firepit, where logs are arranged in a rough circle and the structure of unlit wood sits waiting. "Lesson one. Fire's not about how fast you strike the match. It's about the foundation. You build it right, and it'll burn steady all night. You rush it, it'll die out when you need it most."
I sink onto one of the logs, pulling out my notebook like I'm actually going to take coherent notes instead of just watching the way his hands move. "That sounds like a metaphor."
"Maybe it is." He kneels beside the firepit, and I watch as he arranges kindling and tinder with the kind of attention that speaks to years of practice. "Or maybe fire is just fire."
"Occupational hazard," I admit. "Authors are always looking for hidden meaning in everything.”
He strikes a match and holds it to the tinder. The flame catches, spreads, grows. Within minutes, he's coaxed a small fire into being, and then carefully, systematically, he feeds it larger pieces of wood until it's crackling steadily.
"How long have you lived up here?" I ask, pen poised over paper like I'm conducting an interview.
"Built the cabin six years ago. Bought the land a year before that." He settles back on his heels, watching the fire. "Needed space after I got out."
"The military?"
He nods once. "Army. Did my time, got out, realized I wasn't built for civilian life in the conventional sense. Couldn't handle living in subdivisions or having neighbors thirty feet away or following someone else's schedule."
It's the most he's ever said to me at once, and I write it down not because I need it for my book, but because I want to remember. "So, you came here."
“I looked all over the country for the best deal on land. I almost bought a couple hundred acres in Montana, but the winters are too long and harsh there for me.”
The fire crackles between us, sending sparks up into the early evening air. Above us, the sky is shifting from blue to purple, the first stars beginning to appear.
"All right," he says, standing and reaching for a bag I hadn't noticed before. "You said you wanted to know about campfires and roasted marshmallows."
He pulls out a package of marshmallows. The good kind, I notice, not the cheap ones. Then he reaches for a couple of long sticks that look like they've been whittled smooth. He spears a marshmallow on one and holds it out to me.
"Show me what you've got," he says.
I take the stick from him, trying to remember the last time I actually roasted a marshmallow. Summer camp, maybe? I was eleven or twelve.
I hold it over the flames the way I vaguely remember, and within thirty seconds, the marshmallow is completely engulfed in flames.
"Yikes,” I yelp, jerking it back as the marshmallow blazes like a tiny torch. "I think I ruined this one.”
Silas takes the stick from me, blows out the flames with one steady breath, and shakes his head. "Amateur move."
"Hey! I told you I needed a teacher,” I protest, laughing.
"Clearly,” he answers, sounding amused.
He prepares another marshmallow, spearing it on the stick with care. Then he holds it not over the flames, but over a burning ember along the edge of the fire, rotating it slowly, patiently, until the outside turns the color of honey, golden brown and perfectly even.
"It's about patience," he says, still rotating the stick. "And distance. Too close, it burns. Too far, nothing happens. You have to find the right spot and hold it there."
He pulls the stick back and offers the marshmallow to me. "Go on."
I lean forward and bite into it, and sweetness floods my mouth—warm, gooey, perfection. A drop of it clings to my lip, sticky and sweet.
He's watching me, and something in his gaze has darkened in a way that makes my pulse stumble and then start racing.
"You've got..." He gestures to the corner of his own mouth.
I swipe at my lip with my thumb, but his expression doesn't change.
