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When he opened his fingers to take the satellite phone, the pain flared, causing him to fumble the handset. The phone fell from his grasp, hit the wooden floor, and split into pieces.
     
    John stared at his salvation, scattered in at least five plastic chunks at his feet. He was now a prisoner in his own cabin. No means of transportation out. No way to communicate with the outside world. He was on his last candle and didn’t have enough wood to sustain any kind of warmth overnight. His hand was likely broken and his daughter was wandering in a snowstorm somewhere miles away, lost in the dark.
     
    He kicked a couple of pieces of phone away and walked over to the window, leaving the axe leaning against the sofa. The light was fading for another day. In a short time, his world would be absolutely black.
     
    He cursed the snow for taking his parents from him. He cursed it for hurting his wife who now lay in a hospital bed without him by her side. But most of all, he cursed it because it stopped him from doing his job as a father, as a husband.
     
    Maybe I could bundle up and start walking.
     
    The ache in his bad leg told him he wouldn’t get very far.
     
    He counted three whole days since he had taken his pills. Usually when he came up to the cabin to lock down and write uninterrupted, he chose not to take the pills. Some of his best work was done when he felt closer to his schizophrenia.
     
    John smacked his left hand against the window pane.
     
    Why the hell didn’t I get that reserve snowmobile?
     
    He had always talked about it. Even after the gas leak on the machine outside was fixed a month ago, he’d told his wife he would get a reserve one, just in case.
     
    He walked away from the window and turned on the radio. White noise came out of the speakers. He adjusted the dial left and right until a station came in. The sound was laden with static. After a little more fiddling, he turned it off and stood back to his full height.
     
    “ Don’t.”
     
    He ignored the voice. It had to be in his head. Just to be sure, he scanned the room anyway.
     
    Something loud banged outside, making him jump.
     
    That’s how they’re doing this. They slipped out of the cabin as I entered it. Bastards. I’ll show them not to fuck with me.
     
    He hobbled over to the couch to retrieve the axe. When he got to the front door, he eased out of the knapsack and placed it on the floor. With both gloves back on, he hefted the axe up to rest on his shoulder.
     
    Then he opened the cabin door. The snow had already begun the task of covering his previous tracks. The little light he had left was just enough to look around for other prints, but the snow was undisturbed.
     
    Wind buffeted his face, feeling colder than before.
     
    He eased out and stepped into the thickest part. The soft, powdery snow covered his knee, rising to mid thigh.
     
    Another bang sounded to his right and he turned, gripping the axe, ready to take on the intruders. The shed door sat ajar a few inches, moving back and forth in the wind. It slammed shut before drifting open once more.
     
    The shed. The shed has spare gas.
     
    Why he didn’t think of it before baffled him. He took large strides to wade through the snow, limping and stomping until he got to the shed’s door. He laid the axe against the outer wall and examined the situation.
     
    The door opened outward, but the snow was too high to allow it much movement. John leaned down and pulled the drifted snow out of the way, digging a small path so he could open the door enough to squeeze inside the shed. Only his left hand was of any use now. The cold seeped through his glove with ease. All feeling disappeared within minutes. He stood and balanced on his good leg, leaned against the side of the shed and waited until he got his breathing under control.
     
    A quick glance at the cabin’s window and the woman was back. Her features were drawn, pale and frightened.
     
    “You should come out and help