As the days shortened, the sunflower barrier grew thicker. She concentrated on the cabin sides facing the strong winds. She did not cover the chimney wall, and she kept stalks well away from sparks and flame. Where the bundles met the logs, she left breathing space. It was simple work, but slow. Each bundle had to be dry, tied firmly, and fixed so a strong gust could not throw it across the yard.
The neighbors kept noticing. “You’ll take all that down before winter, surely,” one woman said. “No,” she replied. “That is what it’s for.” The neighbor touched a stalk and frowned. “It feels like nothing.” The woman split it and showed her the soft center. “Exactly. There’s a lot of air in there.” The neighbor still looked doubtful. “Air won’t stop the cold of January.” The woman shrugged. “Maybe not. But I’d rather find out now than wonder later.”
Then the first hard cold arrived. Frost covered the ground overnight, and the water bucket near the door grew a thin skin of ice. She expected the cabin walls to become bitterly cold. Instead, that side clearly felt different. Not warm. Just less cold. That was enough to make her add another row.