“I was emotionally traumatized by the fact that it’s somehow colder inside than outside, and I cannot be held responsible for what came out of my mouth in that moment.”

Jack smirks as she adjusts the thermostat. The cabin is filled with the hiss and whine of a heater coming to life, and we both look around the room until our eyes simultaneously land on the world’s smallest and oldest radiator. We won’t be warm anytime soon.

Before I say anything else to humiliate myself, I decide to take quiet stock of our current predicament. The place is so small, I can take everything in at once. It’s a one-room cabin, perfectly preserved from the seventies. Wood paneling and shag carpet dominate the overall aesthetic. There’s a small kitchen with outdated appliances, wooden cupboards smooth from years of handling, and a rickety little table tucked beneath a window. The living room is an anachronistic time capsule, with a record player built inside a giant hutch. I spot a patchwork rug, a bookshelf full of Dean Koontz novels, and a love seat straight out of a grandmother’s sitting room. The only bright spot is a large woodburning stove.

Against the far wall is a bed. Just one. With a thin quilt thrown over the top.

Apparently, the Singhs get off on some kind of Little House on the Prairie kink play that’s generally fucked us over.

“Maybe we can shower to get warm while we wait for the radiator to heat up,” Jack suggests with the faintest hint of panic in her voice.

She marches swiftly to the kitchen sink and turns it on. There’s a hollow thunk from deep inside the wall, but no water is produced by this act. “Except they shut off the water,” Jack grumbles. “I guess they weren’t planning to come to the cabin this winter.”

I don’t say anything in response to this horrible realization. I am busy shaking from the cold while staring at the one bed.

“Okay.” Jack pivots, still firmly in problem-solving mode. “I’ll call them and see how to turn the water back on.”

She fishes her phone out from the depths of her snow pants, and her face falls as soon as she stares at the screen. “No service, but I’m sure there’s Wi-Fi.”

There is not Wi-Fi, but there is an old rotary phone half hidden by a stack of National Geographic magazines from the nineties. We call Katherine, who spends a good five minutes weeping about our imminent deaths before Jack reassures her we’re fine and safe and asks for the Singhs’ phone number.

The Singhs, of course, don’t answer.

“Katherine is right,” I say. “Death does seem like the only natural conclusion to this night.”