Kevok Brutefisk finished the woodpile before the first frost and stepped back to look at what he had made. The logs stood waist-high beside the homestead wall, bark still rough, cut ends pale where his axe had gone through clean. He had split them himself, the way he had split every board and dragged every stone of the homestead behind him. The roof above the door had caved in three times during the build. He had sat in the mud a long while after the third fall. Then he had stood up and started again, because he wanted a place warm enough that a woman might choose to stay in it. The trouble was the hearth. He had no hearth. He had walls and a roof and a bed, and he had a woodpile, but inside the house there was only cold air and the smell of new pine. The nights were turning. He could read the sky the way other men read letters, and the sky said three days, maybe four, before the cold came down hard. No guest would sleep in a house like this. No guest would even come to the door. He walked the cleared ground in front of the homestead and picked his spot. Far enough from the wall that a spark could not reach the roof. Close enough that the light would touch the windows. He hauled stones from the creek bed and set them in a ring. Then he went to the woodpile and began to build. He stacked the logs upright, leaning them inward so the tops met. He wedged smaller wood between them and packed the center with kindling and dry moss. By dusk the structure stood taller than he did, a cone of timber waiting for flame. He struck his flint against steel and held the spark to the moss. The fire caught. It climbed the inside of the cone and pushed heat out in a wide circle. He stepped back and felt the warmth on his bare chest and on the scars there. The homestead windows glowed orange. He went to the timber scraps left over and cut two short posts and a flat board. He carved letters into the board with his knife, slowly, because he had taught himself letters the same way he had taught himself everything. When he finished he drove the posts into the ground at the path's edge, where anyone walking up would see the sign before they saw him. The words said a woman would be welcome here. He painted small hearts beside them with sap and crushed berry. The fire burned high behind him. The house was warm now, or warm enough. He sat on a stump near the flames and watched the path. He had built the place. He had lit the place. The cold was coming, and for the first time the homestead could hold a guest through the night. Now he only needed the guest to come.