The logs are dry and brittle, an acid wash of black and gray. The weight of the forest growing on top of it has caved in the roof in multiple spots and caused the bottom row of logs to sink into the earth. What should be a ten-foot high cabin is closer to six feet. What appears to be a log window cover, leans up against the cabin, underneath a rectangular hole nearly the same size. A ladder, built from the same aged logs, leans against the roof.

Opik ducks into the large dark opening — if there ever was a door it has long since disappeared or is on display in a museum somewhere — and Lassie and I follow.

There is enough sunlight shining through the windows and the natural skylights in the roof, to light the compact structure.

For as unkempt as the outside of the cabin is, the inside is relatively clean. It is riddled with dust and cobwebs, small plants, and some rodent squatters, yet it’s evident that whoever had lived there, kept things tidy. There is a small mirror, about the size of a hardcover book, hanging on the wall. I run the side of my hand down the middle, etching out three inches in the dust. I lean down and examine my face. I shaved with an electric razor in the shower every couple days and I usually had some degree of stubble. After eight days, I now have a dingy brown beard. And though I attempted to stay out of the sun as much as possible the twenty-three hours I was asleep, my skin had darkened five shades.

I look worn, rugged, a man who lived. Not a man who slept his life away.

I smile at the man in the mirror, then continue on to a small area with a wood stove. Dishes are still stacked on the wooden counter. Salt and pepper shakers are still centered on the aging table. There are canned foods of different sorts, some dented, some not. Next to the nonperishables, which have long ago perished, is a dusty bottle. I run my finger over the plastic and smile.

I call over Opik and Lassie.

I don’t remember where I read it, or heard it, some obscure fact that there was only one food on the planet that could never go bad.

Honey.

I unscrew the top and squish a dollop on my finger. I taste it. It is perfect.

I hand the bottle to Opik, and after squeezing some in his mouth, he lets Lassie lick honey off his hands. There is a large chest under the window and I pull it open with a loud creak. There are snow shoes, a fur hat, a fur jacket, a lantern. All great, but not what makes the hair on my arms stand on end.

I reach my hand in and pull it out.

A map.

::::

It is 3:57 a.m.