#((js))

Price is mid‑sentence about the merits of freshwater versus saltwater fishing, the exact model of camping stove he swears by, when Simon cuts him off, distracted.

“Yeah. Gotta get my harvest in before sundown.”

Price blinks.

“…Harvest?” he repeats slowly. “Bit early in the year for that, isn't it?”

Simon grunts. “Not for mine.”

"Show me then."

He turns the camera, and the screen swings from Simon’s frost‑rimmed balaclava to the yard outside, a world carved out of winter. Snow drifts pile high against the fence. The air is so cold it looks like it could cut.

And there, in the middle of it, is Reader, bundled in a coat that can’t quite hide the swell of her belly, cheeks flushed from the cold, breath fogging the air in soft puffs. One mittened hand rests on the curve of her stomach, thumb stroking absentminded circles.

Two other kids are there too, trying to build a snowman, except one's using his (blunt) knives for the snowman's nose, and the other one's just eating the snow.

Reader laughs at something, head tipping back, joy bright enough to warm the frozen air.

And Price— he gets it. He gets it.

Simon Riley, who has buried more men than he’ll ever admit, who has walked through gunfire and come out meaner, harder, quieter, is standing on his patio with frost on his shoulders and a softness in his voice that could split the earth.

Price nods once, a solemn gesture of respect. “Good yield this year.”