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boots. He slid out of bed, wincing when his feet hit the chilly floor. The jeans felt dry, as did the shirts. As for the gold lamé thong, he’d rather go commando. He spared the bathroom a glance. A shower would be great, but for all he knew, water had to be heated on the stove. Maybe real men didn’t shower on fishing trips. Sighing, he turned toward the chair. For now, clothes.
    He pulled on the jeans and buttoned them up, and then shed the oversize shirt and got into his own thermal and flannel. Ah, yes . Great to wear his own stuff. It made him feel more in control. He sat on the chair and pulled on his socks to ward off the cold. The need to empty his bladder hit, and he padded to the bathroom.
    An opaque window sat up high in the wall above the tub and let in dim light. Nothing happened when he flicked the light switch by the door. Maybe the storm had knocked out the electricity?
    The four-legged tub took up half the floor space. A pipe ran up from the tub faucet to a showerhead, and a shower curtain hung from a circular rod attached to the ceiling. The sink was on a pedestal, and a large candle sat in the depression for the soap. There must be water, even if the fixtures looked like antiques.
    In comparison, the toilet looked space-age. Errol squinted at the logo. Huh . A composting toilet with directions in the form of pictures. He emptied his bladder and sighed with relief. Closing the lid resulted in a low grinding sound. The sink faucet yielded a trickle of water—which felt too hot on his damaged skin.
    The image looking back from the mirror didn’t exactly thrill him: dark circles, unshaven jaw, hopeless hair. He took the time to splash his face and tried to smooth down the chaos of his hair with water before drying his hands on his pants. Where was that hand cream? After a glance over his shoulder, he opened the medicine cabinet.
    The shelves held very little: toothbrush and paste, mouthwash, matches. Thermometer. No shaving supplies, no intimate supplies, nothing feminine. So this wasn’t a love shack for Joe. Either that, or he kept the goodies elsewhere. Errol dabbed toothpaste on a finger, suffering the sting as he attempted to clean his teeth, and then returned to the main room.
    Joe remained sacked out on the couch. In sleep, he looked younger—hair tousled, features smooth, expression open and vulnerable. Awake he looked much more in charge, more shuttered.
    The built-in bookshelves on either side of the fireplace were generously stocked with an assortment of reading materials. Most were worn paperbacks, but here and there a hardback staggered the arrangement. Errol ran a finger along the spines: nonfiction, Westerns, suspense. A couple of former New York Times best sellers. A lot of mystery volumes, some of which looked very old.
    A Midsummer Night’s Dream . The pleasure of finding an old friend warmed him, and he pulled it loose. This book had a worn leather cover with gold lettering that had become stippled with age. Carefully Errol opened it to the title page. Written in bold black script was:
    To J,
    Come, my lord, and in our flight
    Tell me how it came this night
    That I sleeping here was found
    With these mortals on the ground.
    Love, B
    To J. Huh . Joe? And who was B? A girlfriend? Joe hadn’t mentioned anyone—not that it was any of Errol’s business. This might not be something he should be found holding. He slid it back into its spot and pulled a mystery paperback instead. The ongoing blizzard obscured the sun and spared little illumination for the interior of the cabin. Between that and the remnants of the fire, reading would be difficult. Errol bit his lip. Should he throw another log on the fire? Admittedly he didn’t know the first thing about camping or tending a fireplace. Joe sighed in his sleep, and Errol froze for a few seconds. Other than shifting a bit, Joe didn’t rouse.
    Stepping up to the mantel, Errol gazed at the dusty pictures. There was Joe with a man who looked