The Survivors by Will Weaver

slow and nonthreatening, seem to work. He doesn’t run.
    When she returns, he’s gone. With an old rake, she comes back to clean up the mess and set the barrel upright. As she works, she raises her head and gradually stops moving; slowly she pivots her face to look behind her, into the brush. The old dog, almost perfectly camouflaged, watches her. Once her eyes stop on his, he melts backward into the brush.
    â€œBrush,” Sarah says. “That’s your name.”

CHAPTER TWELVE
MILES
    OCTOBER ROLLS ALONG LIKE SUMMER , warm and hazy and dry. Miles skims the front page. The unnaturally warm weather is a result of the earth’s heat trapped under the worldwide dome of dust, including sulfurous compounds from the volcanoes, their gas miles up in the air, that react with oxygen and water to form aerosols that continue to linger worldwide .
    â€œIn other words, a yellow freaking mist with a hang time of two to three years,” Miles mutters, and tosses aside the newspaper. “Who writes that stuff?”
    â€œDid you say something?” Artie asks, popping out one earbud.
    â€œNo,” Miles says, and heads outside the cabin. He gets his nature facts not from scientists or the news but from keeping his eyes open. That, and from Mr. Kurz’s notes on the local birds and critters. Robins, finches, wrens—should have gone south a month ago, but they’re still here chirping and fluttering as they feed on bugs and seeds. Nature is one tough mother, but she takes care of the survivors. In the woods around the cabin male ruffed grouse, or partridge, are calling. Boom … boom … boom … boom-boom … boom-boom-boom—boomaboomabooma! go their wings as they stand on logs and beat their wings in the air. The sound is like someone trying over and over to start an old tractor. But really it’s the sound of life moving forward despite the volcanoes.
    Artie comes out of the cabin wearing his work gloves. “Let’s do our thing,” he calls to Miles.
    Gathering firewood is what Miles and his father do best: saw up dead trees—most of them blowdown—then cut off the limbs with a short axe (Artie is the axe man) and later dice the logs into blocks with a vintage but very sharp two-man crosscut saw. Artie on one end, Miles on the other. Back-and-forth strokes, not fast, not slow, but with a steady rhythm. A beat, almost. Power chainsaws are cheap—there are plenty of used ones at Old But Gold—but they are also stinky, dangerous, and loud. A chainsaw engine can be heard for miles.
    They knock out one long pine tree, then take a break to catch their breaths.
    â€œWatch this,” Artie says to Miles.
    Miles straightens up to see.
    With the short trimming axe in one hand, his father steps off five paces from a big standing dead tree. Like a tennis player bobbing backward for a serve, he swings the axe over his head—and launches it in a one-armed throw. The shiny axehead whips its handle end over end in the air—until the whole thing clanks against the tree trunk and falls to the ground.
    â€œDang,” his father says. “I stuck two in a row yesterday.”
    After the firewood is cut, Miles heads over to work on the little winter stall for Emily. Sarah has been helping him with that on weekends and after school; when it comes to Emily or that stray dog, she’s always right there. He has hardly pounded two nails when she shows up and stands there, watching. Micromanaging.
    â€œHow’s Emily going to stay warm outside in winter?” Sarah asks.
    â€œHer own body heat,” Miles says. “That’s why her shed has to be small.”
    â€œShe’ll freeze to death!”
    â€œWe’ll put down a thick layer of sawdust, then fill it up with leaves. She’ll be totally cozy.”
    â€œShe’d better be,” Sarah grumbles.
    â€œWell she ain’t sleeping in the cabin,” Miles replies, banging home