Glancing around for cover, I spy a copse of trees twenty yards to my right. In the darkness, the thicket at the base looks like a tangle of black, fragile bones. The last thing I want to do is spend the next hour sitting in snow; I’m not exactly dressed for extreme weather. But it’s the best seat in the house, so I cross to the trees, break through the brush, and use my boots to tamp down the scrub. When I’ve made enough room, I kneel. I can just see over the top of the brush in a 360 degree circle. Not perfect, but it’ll do.

It doesn’t take long for me to realize it’s going to be a long hour. My face and hands and feet are already cold. The physical exertion of the walk kept me warm earlier. Now, motionless and with the wind bearing down, I’m getting seriously cold. Within twenty minutes, I’m shivering. I’m thinking about calling it a night, wishing I’d thought to buy chemical hand warmers, when the whine of an engine interrupts.

I get to my knees and peer over the top of the brush. No one in sight, but the sound is growing louder. Definitely from a snowmobile, possibly two, and coming toward me. A minute later, I spot the flicker of headlights. The first machine emerges from the trees and glides to a stop twenty yards from where I sit. Male driver. No passenger. Same green and white helmet as one of the men I saw two nights ago.

A second snow machine pulls up beside the first. Male driver. No passenger. I recognize the snowmobile. Blue and white Polaris. What the hell are they up to?

The men dismount and remove their helmets. Next comes the ski masks. I recognize them instantly. Jacob Yoder and Jonas Smucker. Casually, they lean against their snowmobiles as if setting in for a wait. Yoder reaches into the pocket of his snowsuit, pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights up. He passes it to Smucker, who does the same. When they’re both smoking, Yoder presents a flask and takes a long pull. For several minutes, the two men pass the flask back and forth. They’re talking and laughing, but I’m too far away to discern what they’re saying.

I’m wondering how all this relates to the note, pondering who might’ve left it and why, when I hear the approach of yet another snowmobile. Through the scrub, I see the machine materialize from the woods to the east. Male driver. No passenger. I’m trying to make out the type of machine, searching for a license plate, when the headlights play over me. For an instant, I’m blinded. Ducking, I crouch more deeply into the brush.