I start making my way upstream along the marshy shore. What I want to find, as paradoxical as it might sound, is the deepest stretch of the stream. Shallow water is often turbulent and doesn’t freeze easily. The irregular river bottom causes the current to roil, and the ice above never thickens.

I hope for deer prints. I weigh as much as a big buck, and where he can cross, I can cross.

But the snow has accumulated more in the open than it did under the trees. Half an hour ago, I could still have spotted tracks. But any prints that might’ve been here were smoothed over by the wind.

I take a breather to lean against a snag and check my bandanna. The cloth is soaked, and blood continues to ooze down my pants leg. It puddles inside my already wet boot, making every step squishy. I don’t feel lightheaded yet, but if the hemorrhage continues, it’s only a matter of time before I enter the danger zone.

At 10 percent blood loss, I will feel dizzy, then nauseous. My blood vessels will constrict, as my circulatory system tries to protect itself, and the cold I am feeling now will become even worse. At 20 percent, I will experience disorientation and rapid breathing. My body will go into the state of shock I have so far avoided. At 30 percent, I will lose consciousness, and I will die without Jewett needing to fire another shot.

Ahead of me, a shadow detaches itself from the near trees and floats out onto the ice. Then it stops.

I can’t see the creature clearly, but I don’t need to.

The wolf is waiting for me. That much is obvious. Don’t ask me how, but Shadow knows it is safe to cross here. He wants me to follow him.

Carefully, I take a step onto the ice, then shuffle out my other foot. My balance is poor, and I totter for a moment like it’s my first time on skates.

After I have steadied myself, I call to Shadow. My voice is hoarse from sucking cold air into my voice box. “Hey! It’s good to see you.”

He merely waits.

When I am twenty feet from him, he trots forward and disappears into the dark. He overestimates how well I can see him in the storm.

But I can follow his tracks at least. They are huge, clawed, and the size of my open hand.

Soon I see that he is leading me toward a domed shape that I mistake for a boulder before realizing it is a beaver lodge. The top is crusted with snow from a prior storm. The logs and sticks jutting up from the mound appear gray and weathered.