Once there, they found a small clearing. No sooner had Spud shed his pack than Reed ordered him to fill the filtering bag with creek water. Spud could barely stand, but did as he was ordered, because they would need water. At the edge of the creek he began to shiver—powerful, uncontrollable shaking that knotted his shoulders and back and clenched his jaw so tight, he thought his teeth might break.

He carried the water back to camp, hooked the bag on a limb, and fell to his knees beside his backpack. He fumbled at the cords with gnarled fingers. When he’d opened it enough, he yanked stuff out until he felt his sleeping bag wedged in the bottom. He tried to pull it out, but his fingers refused to obey him. So close to warmth, yet so far away.

He stood, gripped the bottom of the pack with what strength he had left, and shook it violently until the sleeping bag fell out. His fingers failed him yet again, so he unzipped the sleeping bag with his teeth, threw off his coat and wet clothing, and crawled inside, curling into a fetal position as his body shook with cold.

Reed, in his warm coat, wool sweater, and expensive boots, went to work setting up his small tent, the clack of bungeed poles gnawing at Spud’s concentration. Spud had convinced himself that he could kill Reed to save Pip’s life, but now he believed that he could do it just to get Reed’s coat. He needed a fire to dry his clothing and thaw his body.

“When I warm up…” Spud could barely get the words out past his chattering teeth. “I’ll get… some firewood.”

“No fire.”

“What do… you mean? We gotta… dry our clothes.”

“My clothes are fine. So are Pip’s.”

“Mine aren’t. My shoes… are soaked—everything’s… soaked. I need… a fire.”

Reed spoke like a mother who was tired of her child’s tantrum. “We can’t have a fire, because if a plane flies overhead, we’d be spotted. I have Mylar blankets that’ll keep us hidden from the infrared.”

“I need… dry clothes… in the morning.”

“Hang ’em in a tree. They’ll be dry in the morning.”

“The hell… they will.”

“I—said—no—fire!” Reed punched each word.

Spud felt as though he had just been handed a death sentence. “I’m wearing… street clothes.”

“And why is that?” Reed stopped masking his anger and hissed his words. “You disobeyed me and went to St. Paul after I told you not to. You brought a fucking tracker back to the cabin with you. You don’t have clothes because…” Reed took a breath and seemed to settle down. “I brought food and sleeping bags. We have a water filter, a cookstove, and food. I didn’t have time to get you better clothes.”

Reed’s explanation was nothing more than noise, the clanging of tin cans presented as music.

Reed set up a small burner about the size of a badminton shuttlecock, the flame fed by a small propane tank. Beside Reed lay packages of dehydrated food, meals that would bloom once he added the boiling water. Reed controlled the food, the water, the gun.