Chapter 155

Sloane

Teague made stew.

He made stew most nights. Venison, usually, from the strips hanging in the lean-to behind the woodshed, with potatoes from the pit under the kitchen floor and onions and whatever else he could find, and a crust of bread on the side, torn rather than cut. He cooked it one-handed, with the bad hand tucked against his chest and the pot handle braced against the edge of the stove, and he never once let anyone help him.

Tonight he had put something else in it. Something dark and sharp and green that I couldn’t name. I ate two bowls and wiped the second one clean with the bread.

“Teague,” I said, when we were clearing the table. “That was the best thing I’ve eaten in months.”

He was at the basin with his sleeves pushed up. He didn’t turn round. But his ears went faintly pink, above the gray in his beard, and he scrubbed the pot harder.

Malachi was stacking the bowls. I saw the corner of his mouth move.

I took the br