December 1995
John ran his whetstone over another knife, cursing the almost five feet of snow that had him trapped indoors. It disgusted him, thinking of a wendigo stalking the winter forests, while he just sat on his ass, in his tiny cabin, playing with his useless weapons.
Placing a shining blade on the table and grumbling another curse under his breath, he glanced up at his sons, two sprawling teenagers on the sofa.
As he did, Sam looked up, shot his father a small smile and then bent over his books again.
And for some reason, the curses died on John's lips.