Charlotte Winter counted the single men in Permafrost again on her walk to the post office, and the number had not changed since her husband died. Four. One was her cousin. Two were married to women who watched them like hawks. The fourth spat tobacco on her boots last Sunday. She was thirty-one, widowed two winters, and the snow over her husband's grave had packed down hard enough to walk on. She wanted a second life. She could not build one from four men in a town that never grew. She stopped at the bulletin board outside the general store to pin up her weekly notice for mending work. A new sheet was tacked over the old rental listings. A one-bedroom unit had opened at the small apartment building on the north edge of town, and someone had already signed the line. The name was unfamiliar. Brightlee Carter. The clerk inside told her he had come in yesterday for the key, a young man from down south, hired on at the mill for the season. He had asked where a person could get a hot meal and a haircut. Charlotte thanked the clerk. She walked home the long way, past the apartment building, and saw a blue duffel bag sitting on the outside step of unit three. That evening she brought over a covered dish of stew, because that was what people did here and no one could fault her for it. Brightlee opened the door in his coat, still unpacking, scarf around his neck like he had not yet trusted the indoor heat. He was younger than she had hoped and older than she had feared. He took the dish with both hands and asked her name twice to be sure he had it. She told him the mill closed at six and the diner closed at seven, and if he wanted the haircut he should ask for the woman two doors down from the post office. He asked if she would be at the diner tomorrow. Charlotte said she could be. She walked back across the packed snow with her empty hands swinging, and for the first time since the funeral she was counting forward instead of back.

Two winters after the stew, Charlotte sat on the closed lid of the toilet with a plastic strip balanced on her knee. The pink line came up before she finished counting to ten. She was thirty-five. Carrie was gone to college in the fall. Celina would start high school. Carson was in seventh grade and still slept with the door open. Charlotte had thought she was done with cribs and bottles. She had thought wrong. Brightlee had married her a year ago and signed the adoption papers the same week. He came home from the mill that night with sawdust in his cuffs and stamped snow off his boots in the hall. Charlotte set the strip on the kitchen table between them. He picked it up, turned it in the light, and set it back down. He did not speak for a long moment. Then he pulled a chair around next to hers and put his hand flat on the table beside the test, not on her, giving her the choice. She took his hand. He said her name once and then said it was good news. The apartment felt smaller by morning. Three bedrooms had already been tight. Carrie had the small room. Celina and Carson shared the one at the end of the hall and fought about it every week. There was no fourth door. The pink and blue building on the edge of town had never been meant for five, and it would not stretch to six. Charlotte counted the walls twice and knew the number would not change. She told the children at breakfast before she could lose her nerve. Carrie set down her toast and said, "Okay. So we move." Celina asked if the baby would be a girl. Carson asked if he could have his own room finally. Charlotte said she did not know about the baby and yes about the room, if they could find a house that had one for him. Carrie looked at her a long time and then said, "You're happy, right? You should say it out loud if you are." Charlotte said she was. She meant it, and it still surprised her to hear. That afternoon she and Brightlee walked into town and stopped at the clerk's window to ask what was for sale. The clerk slid three listings across the counter. Two were cabins on the far road. One was a house in the village with four bedrooms and a second stove. Brightlee folded the paper into his coat pocket. Charlotte pulled her scarf up over her mouth on the walk back and let herself picture a room with a crib in it. The apartment behind them was already something they were leaving. The next problem was which door to knock on first.