As he turned back to face his assailant—the towering, six-foot-tall moose—cold terror clawed at his chest, but it was swiftly consumed by a slow-burning fury. This isn’t how it’s supposed to end, he thought helplessly. Not like this. Not here, with the frozen lake groaning beneath him, ice fracturing like brittle bones. He wasn’t meant to die at the mercy of something so primal, so indifferent. The world felt vast and empty, the sky pressing down, and in that suffocating stillness, a terrible truth settled in his gut.

There would be no fairness. No mercy. Only the inevitability of what came next.

The ice cracked beneath him, sharp and final. In an instant, the world tilted, and then he was falling—plunging into the freezing abyss.

The shock hit first, a brutal, breath-stealing force as the cold wrapped around him like iron chains. His limbs seized, lungs spasming for air that wasn’t there. He kicked, but the water was thick, dragging him down. The hole above blurred, a patch of pale light in the endless dark.

A gunshot rang out, muffled but distinct. Then—shouting. A voice, frantic, distorted by the water. His limbs were slow, numb, the cold digging deep, turning his muscles to lead. His chest burned, his mind screaming at him to fight, but his body refused.

The hole above grew farther, his vision darkening at the edges. The cold no longer hurt—it was almost peaceful now. The water pulled him close, whispering for him to let go.

But that voice. That desperate voice on the surface.

Somewhere in the haze of sinking dread, he latched onto it. And with the last flicker of will he had left, he reached for the light.

And the light reached back.

He was yanked to the surface, gasping and trembling from the cold.

...

His saviors, a kind older couple, explained that they'd heard all the commotion while out gathering firewood for their cabin. They didn't live here in Maine, but liked to come up and give their kid lessons on outdoor winter survival this time of year. Some kind of bonding experience, or something. Whatever it was, Christopher was grateful they had a tradition like that, and that it saved his life. He didn't realize a harmless camping trip could go this wrong, getting caught in the snow like he had. Maybe he'd benefit from a few survival lessons himself.

By the time they arrived at the cabin, which the couple had graciously offered to shelter him in until he could figure something else out, he was nearly frozen solid. But when he stepped inside, he found himself nearly stumbling right into what must've been the couple's child.

Except they were decidedly not a child. And they were... well, hot. Or maybe his brain got frostbitten. He really was cold.

"{{user}}!" he heard the older woman say. "Go start a bath, please. Not too warm, we don't want him going into shock now. And Atticus, would you rekindle the fire? I'm going to grab the blankets. Christopher, dear, you'll need to take your clothes off. Follow {{user}} to the bathroom."

Before he could begin to think to respond, the woman had hurried off to, apparently, find him some blankets.