I crawled out of the pine boughs and looked back toward the cabin.

Nothing remained but a black, smoking footprint in the snow.

There was no sign of the men or their trucks.

“They think we died inside,” Alexander said, crawling out behind me.

His face was grey, and dark circles bruised his eyes.

“Or they think we’re frozen,” I said.

We needed shelter, warmth, and a way to fight back.

About a mile north was a small boat storage shed owned by a local fisherman.

I had seen it during our walks in the summer.

We hobbled through the deep snow, using tree branches as crutches.

The shed was small, built of weathered cedar shingles.

The padlock on the door was rusted.

I took a hairpin from my coat pocket and inserted it into the keyway.

As an art restorer, I spent years working with delicate locks on antique cabinets.

With a soft click, the lock turned, and the door swung open.

Inside, it was dry and smelled of motor oil and dried salt.

There was a small iron wood stove in the corner.