Cassie stood in the clearing with a log across her shoulders, counting her breaths. The wood pressed hard into her trapezius muscles — not painful yet, but getting there. She'd been holding it for thirty seconds. That was longer than last week. She lowered the log and walked to the timber stack she'd been building all month. Each piece represented a morning's work — felled, stripped, hauled to this spot. The pile stood taller than her now, maybe eight feet high. She grabbed a log from the middle section and lifted it overhead. Held it there. Counted to forty-five before her arms started shaking. Then she set it down, picked up two smaller pieces, one in each hand, and walked the perimeter of the clearing twice. Her forearms burned. Good. Tomorrow she'd try three laps. Someday she'd carry a whole maple tree, but today she'd carry what she could lift, and next week she'd lift more.

Cassie woke to the sound of cracking wood. She pulled on her boots and stepped outside to find the old maple blocking the main path through the clearing. It must have come down in the night. The trunk was massive, wider than her shoulders, longer than three of her timber logs laid end to end. She walked around it twice, studying the gnarled bark and twisted limbs. The wood was still solid despite the rot creeping through one side. She wrapped her arms around the narrowest section and tried to lift. Her feet dug into the dirt, her back strained, but the tree didn't budge. Not even close. She stepped back and wiped her hands on her pants. A month ago, this would have felt like failure. Now it just felt like information. She couldn't move it alone yet, so she'd move it in pieces instead. She grabbed her axe from the shed and marked the first cut. By afternoon, she'd cleared the path. By next year, maybe she wouldn't need the axe.