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It was right here!, you scream, words snatched away by the blizzard so you make no sound at all. The Tantoe Lake refuge—barely a timber cubicle with its roof smashed in—ought to be right where you stand. Crouch down in the snow, brush your hand through the cottongrass and arctic willow . . . not even a trace of its foundations. No bedroll. No lantern. Only a dusting of snow across the ice and desultory patches of vegetation that insist you are still out there on the lake, dying fast on one of its many isolas at least a mile from the edge.

No choice. Keep going. Cold. You can’t see a thing and still your vision blurs; a frost vignette creeps down your eyelashes. The lake wraps icy tendrils around your thighs, squeezing blood into hot patches of muscle that preclude frostbite and loss of limb. It should. have. been.. . . The thought peters out. Your mother’s son is dead already; nothing left inside your skin but a seething sense of injustice and primordial will to live. An overwhelming roar sends you airborne—for a moment you are flying—and slams you down again, ribs shattered, lips cut. Feel the back of your skull, feel the… bedroll..? No. Warm. Claggy. Skin, your skin, a flap of it already stuck to ice and tearing as you move.

Something gets you up, stumbles you on into the bleak. Tantoe Lake is 6.1 miles across. 30 miles round. Still a chance. Got to find the refuge. Things aren’t over yet.

A miracle, small one. The wind dies down—at first merely ceasing to devour you and then dissolving entirely. Hear the bone-crunch of your boots across the lake; the sagging and crackling of the ice that could at any moment fail; ragged breath; heaving heart. Even the raindrop plunk of snot on your collar. Perhaps you preferred the wind—at least it masked this grotesque auditory showcase of bodily function, like a museum loudspeaker blasting out its 30-second loop of animal noises behind a taxidermied bear. Can’t tell if your eyes are open or not. Feels like blood has scabbed across them. Ears out for a crow call or the rustling of a fir, any hopeful sign of land. There is none.

. . . except . . .

A perfect circle of light. Fist-sized and far away or smaller than a coin and close. Can’t tell. No frame of reference. Getting larger. Getting larger! In murderous league with the lake, your legs crumple you down into the ice again—kneecaps first, tendons sliced apart inside like pulled pork. The pain barely registers. Hey!, you shout as best you can, stricken on your side. Harghhh. . . yours are the clotted, guttural cries of death. Don’t choke, now. Here comes the light.

An oppressive absence of sound settles over the lake. As though the dying wind took all noise with it. Even your pulse goes quiet, empties out completely from your ears and chest. The halo elongates, tilting. Takes on a gentle amber hue . . . torch . . . Must be. But no boot-crunch as it comes; no sound behind the bulb that comes to rest above you, traversing your broken body with the predacious linger of a barracks searchlight. ...hrgn, you muster, lungs uncooperative. Filling up, no doubt. Punctured rib and all. Your rescuer remains silent.

You try to glimpse behind the handheld sun, decode the halation to get some sense of them—but not a drop of light spills backwards onto their body. Even the handle of the torch is nondescript and black, its boundary indistinguishable from the coal night. All you can see are the three fingers that clutch it . . .

Grey. Gnarled.

. . . not human.

The torch goes out. For a heartbeat, two pinprick eyes hunger at you, coruscating in moonlight that isn’t there—and then, nothing.