“Finland,” he explained when inquired. He thought it best not to try to make her remember the name of the village that he was born at. It wasn’t like she’d be able to pronounce it, anyhow. “My parents were physicists. Worked at one of our nuclear power plants.” He had been retrieving utensils from one of the cabinets by the time he had finished his explanation of his upbringing. “I spent some time in the Finnish Army. Did not do much of anything important.”

That was the understatement of the century. Even in his home, alongside the hanging antique firearms, were pictures of his past. They told a tale of a young lad enlisting at eighteen as a conscript, grinning wide in a dated photograph. He wore plain fatigues and a Valmet M76 rifle that seemed too small for him. Continuing along the line of photographs, he grew older – until the wintry photos of men practicing war turned into photographs of men [i]engaging[/i] in war. They were pictures of him in the deserts of Afghanistan. It was obviously a dark time for the Finn. He did not smile, but stood ragged and bearded in an accoutrement of military gear. Gone was the surplus rifle of his youth, replaced by the Finnish-licensed copy of the Barrett M82A1 rifle. 

The Finn who stood before her was more like the boy of his youth than the hardened man in the desert of Afghanistan and the jungles of Africa. Sure, he looked like that hardened man, but a smile came easily to his face. As to whether he was trying to hide that past under a façade of happiness was anyone’s guess. 

“Of course, of course!” He exclaimed happily at her help. He waved her next to him. He handed a hickory-handled kitchen knife to her butt first. “Carrots, onions, tomatoes, and garlic please.”

Little did Torsten know how lucky he was. Water pumps throughout the globe were failing, but his own was working fine. An old waterwheel setup next to a creek by his cabin pumped water up from a natural spring underneath the ground. It had been setup by the local Amish community that lived close by. Water came pouring out of his sink, allowing him to fill a pot with water. Of course, he was unable to balance the temperature of the water. He had no water heater in the cabin. He worked alongside Allison, dumping venison and the batch of ingredients within the pot, before carrying it over to the fireplace.

A hook hung along the top, which he hooked the pot on. “I have a Dutch oven,” he explains, “but no need to have two fires at the same time.” It would take at least twenty minutes for the stew to boil and thoroughly cook the venison. It would have been a bad time to come down with food poisoning. He sat near to the fire, so he could keep a close eye on it. The cabin was slowly beginning to become overwhelmed by the smell of cooking venison.

“So, Allison. What adventure brings you to Portland? Do you have job?” He asked. In a way, his accent and way of speech was funny. He seemingly forgot some words, all the while appearing to have perfect diction – other than sounding a bit like Count Dracula, of course.