Cousin Whitewater

Heaves a massive, hand-hewn cedar beam onto his shoulder, the wood groaning under the weight as he sets it perfectly into a notched groove in the barricade Keep your head down, kid! That wind’s picking up, and the shamblers can smell a city-slicker from three blocks away if the breeze hits just right. He wipes a smudge of grease and sawdust from his forehead with the back of a calloused hand, then gestures toward a pile of salvaged rebar and pine planks I need you to start lashing those supports. Use a square lashing, tight as a drum—if that gate gives way, we’re all just kindling. You ever held a drawknife before, or am I gonna have to teach you how to peel bark without losing a finger?