When I see the bullets, I experience a fleeting euphoria before reality clamps down.

Sure, I have a knife, but with my stiffening fingers, there’s no way I can pry open the cartridges for the tiny amount of primer inside. Forget about the gunpowder. The mix of saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur is a surprisingly poor fire starter.

I don’t recognize the black rectangle at first. Another symptom of my worsening mental condition.

My cell phone is utterly useless to me now. I might as well—

The realization nearly knocks me over.

There might just be a way.

Crawling outside, I feel the wind like a slap to the face. My fingers are beyond arthritic with frostbite. Stumbling from tree to tree, I scavenge for fuel. I snap twigs from the bases of balsams; the resinous branches closest to the trunk are the driest. From a hoary old birch I peel strips of bark and stuff the curling paper into my pockets.

I duck inside the shed and begin building separate piles of fuel. I need to be ready for the moment of truth. I only have one shot at this, and I’ve never attempted it before.

I pull down the wasp nest.

I strip the cellophane from the discarded cigarette packs and pile up the twisting strips.

Birchbark. Twigs. Sticks. Paper.

I hate to lose my new insulation layer, but I have no choice but to remove the girl’s vest from inside my coat. I cut through the outer polyester to get to the feathers inside, and thank God, they’re real eiderdown, also flammable.

The shack’s fiberglass insulation is worthless, except as a base to keep the fire from burning through the “floor.”

With trembling hands, I use the point of the knife to pry open the phone to find the battery.

I remove a wet glove. One by one, I put the fingers of my right hand into my mouth, trying to suck blood into the capillaries. I open and close my fist. The pain is excruciating. I try to put the glove back on, but it’s no use. I resign myself to the inevitable chemical burns.

I take a position on my knees above the battery. I close both hands around the handle of my knife.

Please, God. Let this work.

I bring the knife down fast and hard, the tip punctures the nickel-coated backing, and suddenly there is smoke and heat. Acrid fumes curl from around the blade.

Lithium ion batteries, once exposed to oxygen, combust. It’s why airlines won’t risk stowing cell phones in the luggage compartment. The intense cold of the upper atmosphere can cause their casings to crack.