If I’d come ashore on the western bank, I would’ve known what to do. Scramble up to the road and begin jogging to the glowing farmhouse at the bottom of the hill. Mariëtte Chamberlain might still be there, or her daughter at least. Hadn’t Bibi Chamberlain said she was the sole occupant of the professor’s old manse?

But there is no way across the Androscoggin, not here at least. The nearest bridge is at least two miles north through heavy cover, too far to run in my deteriorating condition. I might try crossing the ice downstream. It will likely be thicker in the calmer waters above Gulf Island Pond. But there are no guarantees I can find safe passage before hypothermia consumes me.

I have to find shelter here, wherever here might be.

Somewhere within the town boundary of Leeds, I think. The municipal line follows the main channel of the Androscoggin. I wish I knew the area better, but I’ve never had cause to work this district as a warden. I try to recall the map in my gazetteer. One thing I remember is seeing islands in the stream. Acres and half-acres of forest too insignificant to have names.

A fresh fear grips me. What if, instead of being on the Androscoggin’s eastern bank, I am on one of those islets, cut off from the mainland by ice all around?

With no shelter in sight and no means of making a fire, my only choice is to move.

I gather up my things, careful to put everything of potential use in the zipped pockets of my parka, even my dead phone.

Thank you, God, for eiderdown.

Thank you for Gore-Tex, W. L. Gore.

Thank you for the lambswool sweater, Leon Leonwood Bean.

As I turn to face the pitch-black woods, I wonder if Shadow is nearby. If I were him, I would have run as far from his cage-keeper as possible. At least he is alive, though. And his chances of staying that way—creature of the north that he is—are better than mine.

There is a small copse of balsams before me, perfect Christmas trees for anyone still in the market. Emma Cronk would have found one of them ideal to decorate my lonesome house. The boughs of these are clumped with fresh snow like cake frosting. I’d rather not try to bull my way through the bristling branches.

I turn back to the river, and that is when I see the vehicle atop the low cliff. Headlights shimmer into space, illuminating the dancing snowflakes. It has to be parked where I went off the road. I wasn’t carried as far downstream as I thought. Maybe the driver has seen my tracks going off the edge.

My first impulse is to hope the puny beam of my SureFire is strong enough to be spotted from a distance of a hundred yards.