My heart hammered against my ribs, loud in the silence of the cabin.

“Claire?” Alexander’s voice was a dry rasp from the sofa.

“It’s nothing,” I lied, though my voice shook. “Just a spam message.”

I knelt by the hearth.

The matches were in a metal tin on the mantel, exactly where my father used to keep them.

I struck three before one caught, the sulfur smell sharp in the freezing room.

I fed dry birch bark and kindling into the old cast-iron stove.

A small orange flame began to lick the dry wood.

I went back to Alexander.

His face was pale, shadowed with dark bruises, and his coat was damp from the sleet.

I helped him slide the heavy wool coat off his shoulders.

Underneath, his flannel shirt was thin and threadbare.

I went to the small wooden chest in the corner and found a thick wool blanket.

I draped it over his shoulders and sat down beside him on the sagging cushions.

He grabbed my hand.

His fingers were ice cold, but his grip was surprisingly tight.