<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'">Roger knew George was right, they needed to do their job without complaint just like everyone else did theirs. Cutting wood, it seemed like such a simple thing, but just like the frontier days, a fire could be the only thing that saved you from nature. By now, Roger was convinced that nature wasn't a 'mother' at all, but more like a 'motherfucker'. It cut no breaks for anyone. You had to find your mettle to stand on your own or be cut down. Survival of the fittest, it seemed without a doubt, and Roger bucked himself up to the task at hand.<br/>
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"Good idea. Maybe one of the old tarps? One that isn't any god for keeping water out? If we have to wrestle it back, so be it." They'd get the wood back one way or another even if he had to bitch and kick every single piece of it back one by one.<br/>
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The tarp idea proved to be marginally useful. They couldn't put any more wood in it than they could in the wagon and was hard to drag it up the soggy hill. It cut a groove in the mud and snagged up on rocks and sent Roger into a harsh muttering of curses and swearing.  He stuck to it, though, and avoided his step-father's eyes. He knew the man was uneasy with his outbursts; caught in that awkward place of empathy, concern, and disapproval. Roger understood, but that didn't make the need to vent the frustration go away and he freely did so.<br/>
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When they finally managed to haul all they needed, he threw the last piece of it down hard on the pile they'd made. "Go take this piece of shit tarp back to the shed. I'm gonna beat the shit out of this pile of motherfucking bullshit wood." There was no need for his to say he needed to burn off some steam and his suggestion had more of the tone of an order. He was hot and George could either give him the space to cool down, or stand around while Roger absurdly exacted revenge on inanimate things.</span>