You spend part of the afternoon cleaning the trashed living room, bagging everything the Goultiers didn't take with them. The cabin is furnished with ancient, dusty antiques from Scarlet Letter times, complete with a rocking chair in front of the blackened fireplace, but there's nothing except the furniture: no food, no coffee maker, not a single bent fork or sliver of soap.
To your surprise, a heating company van trundles down your unpaved road before the sun sets. The technician doesn't say anything or make eye contact, but he replaces half the components of your furnace, leaving it a weird mish-mash of rusted metal and chubby, primary-colored new plastic. Once the van leaves and you're sure the heat works, you finally take a shower. The flow is weaker than an old man's afternoon piss, but the water is hot. You don't have any towels so you dry off with your ass against the kitchen's heat vent.
Home sweet home.
You go to sleep.
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