by K. S. O'Neill
There was a survivor.
Sarah heard Elena calling from across the wreckage, and saw her daughter's lantern waving in the dark and the driving rain. The sound of the storm's wild surf wafted in from the tip of the Cape a mile away. She went striding, skirts soaked, across the grass and mud of the field.
A survivor. She looked down at the broken body and tattered clothes doubtfully, but it wasn't the way to let some poor soul die in a field. They got it out from the wreckage and around the remnant of the engine, black and burned, mated forever to the charred pine log that it had sucked up and been destroyed by. Then, carefully, onto one of the sleds and out to the road. Bart's old cart was the next one in line to carry the bigger parts into town, and they loaded the thing into the back. He drove them the mile into the village in silence.
"It'll be your house then," Bart told her without looking back from his seat at the front of the cart, stopping by her door to make his point.
Sarah agreed silently, and slid off the back and motioned to Elena to help her carry it inside.