A second snowmobile engine fires. Fainter now because I’ve descended a hill and put some distance between us. I barrel down an incline, skidding over rocks slick with snow, nearly falling a second time. There’s a stream at the base of the hill, frozen and snow covered except where the water runs fast. Slowing, I glance both ways, looking for the best place to cross. I dash right, round a boulder and step onto the ice. Three strides and I’m across. The opposite bank is steep, so I use my hands and climb.

Headlights glint off the trees in front of me. I glance back to see one of the machines approaching fast. Too close. Panic flares hot in my chest. I veer right, pick up speed. Every breath is an agony now. I’m not going to last.

The high-pitched rev of an engine sounds behind me. I look over my shoulder, see the second snowmobile nose down in the creek. The driver misjudged and tried to cross where the bank dropped off too steeply.

The second machine is still in business, less than thirty yards away, weaving between trees, gaining fast. I slide on a fallen branch covered with snow, go to my knees. I scramble to my feet, crash through heavy brush, barely avoiding a low-slung branch. I duck left, pain screaming in my side.

At the crest of the hill I slow, look around to get my bearings. I’m a scant half mile from the trailer. I run at a reckless speed, downhill now. Branches grab at my coat and scratch at my face like claws. I push through the boughs of a massive spruce. Round an outcropping of rock. I’m ever aware of the rise and fall of the engine as the driver makes his way over and around obstacles. Headlights glint on the trees ahead of me, moving up and down as he flies over bumpy terrain.

Arms flailing, I fly over a fallen log and then I’m at the bottom of the hill. A path of sorts runs left and right. The trailer is straight ahead, so I cross the path, back into the trees, go down a short incline. That’s when I realize I’ve reached a lake, snow covered and blending into the land. I’ve walked here, I realize. Straight across the lake is the shortest distance to my trailer. I’m debating whether to go around or cross the ice when the snowmobile bursts from the trees a few yards away.

I start across the lake at run, the snow giving me some traction on the ice. Hovering in the back of my mind is the thought that if my pursuer is armed, I’m a sitting duck. I have zero cover and nowhere to hide. My only hope is that the machine is too heavy to venture onto the ice.