Instead, you finish the roof.
You layer willow branches, then grass, then sod blocks like shingles made of earth.
It’s heavy work, and you have no ladder, so you stack crates and climb carefully, heart in your throat.
Fritz steadies the crates with both hands like a tiny foreman.
When the last block slides into place, you don’t cheer.
You just sit down in the dirt and stare at it.
A roof.
You built a roof with your own body.
Greta runs into the pit and spins in circles, laughing, like the walls are already filled with warmth.
Fritz touches the sod wall with reverent fingers and whispers, “It’s real.”
And you realize he needs to say it out loud because for months, “real” has been the thing life stole from him.
On the first cold night of October, the wind arrives like a bully.
It slams into the prairie and searches for weak spots.
You hear it whistle over the grass, a high keening sound that makes Greta crawl into your lap.
You tuck both children inside the sod house for the first time.
The interior is dim, tight, earthy.
The air smells like wet soil and hope.
The walls absorb the wind’s violence, and for the first time in weeks, you feel a strange sensation.
Stillness.
You light the stove.
The iron warms slowly, and the little space begins to hold heat like a secret.
Greta sighs in her sleep. Fritz watches the walls as if he’s waiting for them to fail.
They don’t.
Two days later, Silas Murdoch rides out to your land.
He’s wearing a wool coat too fine for real labor and boots that have never known mud.
He circles your sod house once like he’s inspecting livestock.
His smile is wrong, too sharp.
“You did it,” he says, almost annoyed. “I’ll be damned.”
Then he adds, quickly, “But winter will still take you. Sell now. I can still give you fifteen.”
Your stomach tightens.
The offer dropped.
Not because he’s generous, but because he smells that you might not be desperate enough to accept crumbs anymore.
You step out of the doorway and stand between him and your home.
Behind you, Fritz holds Greta’s hand, both watching.
“No,” you say.
Silas’s eyes narrow.
“You’re stubborn,” he sneers. “It’s not a virtue out here. It’s a death wish.”
You smile, small and cold.
“Funny,” you reply. “That’s what men say when they want something they can’t buy.”
His face reddens.
He leans down from his horse. “I can make your life hard,” he hisses. “Supplies. Credit. Work.”
His voice is low and confident, like he’s used to threats being effective.
You don’t flinch.
“Then you’ll show the whole county exactly who you are,” you say.
And you watch his confidence crack, just slightly, because predators prefer quiet victims.
He spits into the grass and rides away.
The first snow comes early.
It starts as flurries, innocent-looking, then thickens into a white curtain.
The prairie disappears under a blanket that looks soft but is ruthless.
You keep the stove fed, you ration the pork, you stretch flour with water, and you teach your children to treat warmth like gold.
At night, the wind tries to pry your roof off.
It fails. The sod holds.
Your little house hunkers down into the earth like an animal protecting its young.
A week into the deep freeze, you hear knocking.
Not the gentle kind.
The urgent kind.
You open the door to find a man from the county, cheeks red, eyelashes frosted.
Behind him is a wagon loaded with supplies and three other families bundled in blankets.
“Folkmeer sent us,” the man says. “Your place… it’s holding.”
He looks past you into the warmth. “We’ve got a woman and a baby in town. Their roof collapsed.”
Your throat tightens.
You glance at Fritz and Greta, their faces pale but alive.
You have barely enough for yourselves.
And yet, you remember your mother’s voice from far away, a life ago: If you have warmth, you share it. That’s how you stay human.
You step aside.
“Come in,” you say.
That night, your sod house is fuller than it’s ever been.
A baby sleeps near the stove, tiny breath puffing in the warm air.
A woman cries quietly in the corner, relief breaking out of her like fever.
Fritz gives Greta half his blanket without being asked.
You watch your children and feel your chest ache.
Not from pain.
From pride.
The next morning, the story spreads.
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