Jewett will be crossing the river soon. Whether by foot or using one of the bridges. My bet is he’ll take his vehicle. Why risk venturing onto the ice when he knows I’m on foot with no place to run? My guess is he’ll use the road to loop around and come at me from the east.

My only advantage is he doesn’t know I lost my gun. He has to assume I am still armed, and that means he must approach me with caution. And while Jewett might be a better marksman than I am, I know in my heart that I am the superior hunter.

The exertion has made me sweat. But whatever heat I feel from the exercise dissipates quickly as the perspiration cools. I start shivering again. There will be no more campfires tonight.

I lean my head against the cold, lichen-crusted rock and close my eyes, trying to formulate a plan. The pain in my leg—all those exposed nerves—is too intense.

Something cold touches my nose. I raise my face and open my eyes.

From my perspective, looking up through the tree branches, the sky seems woven of gauze. The snow, which has been as light as powdered sugar, is falling now in fat flakes.

Emma’s spell is working. She’s conjured up a White Christmas for everyone. The thought of the precious little girl makes me smile. Seeing her and her family again provides extra motivation to keep fighting. I will need it.

My night vision has improved since I left the firelight. But the snow in the air also reflects light, making it easier for me to make out my surroundings. An ancient oak tree looms over my boulder, creating a natural chokepoint. And sure enough, as I peer closer, I begin to make out deer tracks at my feet.

Maine deer almost never raise their eyes in the woods because they’re rarely attacked from above. I lean my head against the rock again. The branches above me are long, gnarled, and thick. Fifteen feet in the air, a man-made platform takes shape. I recognize the squared-off outline immediately—it’s a hunter’s deer stand.

Now my eyes search the trunk, and yes, I see it now: the ladder of rusty spikes the hunter has driven into the tree to ascend to his place of ambush. They resemble the iron steps a linemen hammers into a utility pole to climb up to the crossarms.

Some deer stands are big: platforms on which a kid could build a treehouse. This one seems more like a chair strapped to the trunk with nylon bands that have probably rotted in the sun and rain. I’m surprised a strong wind hasn’t dislodged it yet. Surely my weight would cause the seat to come crashing down.

I don’t have the energy to climb up there, anyway.