Chapter 7 - It Costs What It Costs
The Alaska land became real through inconvenience. That was how Nora knew it wasn't fantasy. Fantasy doesn't require septic research. Fantasy doesn't make you sit in a county office while a man named Warren explains permits in a tone that suggests you are personally responsible for every illegal deck ever built in the state.
Nora learned access seasons. Snow load. Well depth. Solar options. Generator maintenance. Bear safety. She bought boots rated for temperatures she didn't want to imagine.
She hired a surveyor named Mika Oshiro, who showed up with two assistants, a GPS unit, and the blunt observation that Nora's southern coat was "adorable but useless."
"I'm from Indiana," Nora protested.
"That explains it."
Mika flagged the boundaries. Nora walked them slowly. Fifty acres felt different once there were markers — not less wild, more knowable. A shape she could learn.
Earl introduced her to a builder named Deb Callahan, a widowed carpenter with short gray hair, broad hands, and no patience for romance about the wilderness.
"You want a cabin?" Deb asked.
"I think so."
"You think so, or you want one?"
"I want one."
"How big?"
"Small."
"People say that until they meet an outhouse at midnight."
They settled on a small, sturdy cabin: sleeping loft, wood stove, propane cooktop, rain catchment, composting toilet, enough insulation to make a foolish dream survivable.
The cost frightened Nora — not because she couldn't manage it, but because spending money on herself still felt illegal.
Deb seemed to get it. "The cabin doesn't care if you feel guilty," she said, tapping the estimate. "It costs what it costs."
That became one of Nora's new favorite sentences. *It costs what it costs. So does freedom.*
Walt found out about the cabin through Daniel. Maybe Daniel meant to tell him. Adult children are messy when the guilt is fresh.
"A cabin?" Walt said, like the word was indecent. "With whose money?"
"Mine."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
"You're spending our retirement."
"No, Walt. I'm spending my savings. You spent our retirement when you opened debt without telling me."
Silence.
"I did that for the family."
"No. You did it for the image of the family."
That landed. She could tell by how long the quiet ran.
"I don't know who you are anymore," he finally said.
Nora looked around the rented cabin — the map, the boots by the door, the mug of cold coffee.
May you like
"Maybe that's because you never spent much time asking."
She hung up. Then, for the first time, she blocked his number for the night. The sky did not fall.
