The monsters talked in their funny language for a long time. Daylight began to turn the walls of her den to murky gray. Their footsteps dislodged snow, which tumbled down from above, pattering onto her snowdrift. That snowdrift had probably saved her life, blocking out the worst of the wind.

A hawk squealed. Wind whistled against the granite slopes, and more snow floated down. It occurred to the girl, distantly, that she couldn’t feel her toes.

Suddenly it was brilliant daylight, and a sliver of blinding brightness angled right into her eyes. Maybe she had blacked out again. She didn’t remember falling asleep, but the voices were gone and the sun was high.

Still, she waited a moment, listening.

Nothing. No funny language, no footsteps, just the ever-present wind and the chatter of mountain jays, who would never be so joyous if the monsters were still around.

Carefully, slowly, she reached for her basket. Her fingers were clumsy and thick and she dropped her tinderbox twice before bringing it to her lap.

Now, for kindling. Detritus covered the floor—some pine needles, a few small sticks, the dried cat droppings.

She gathered it all into a little pile. It wouldn’t burn long, but maybe it would be enough to stave off the cold sickness.

The girl fumbled with her tinderbox. It was wooden with a hinged lid, and it took several tries to get it open. Everything inside was intact: a firesteel with a small handle, a flat piece of uneven flint, some dry grass tinder.

She left the tinder alone; she had plenty in her den, and she might need it later. She lifted firesteel and flint from the box and struck them—at an angle, just like Mamá had taught her.

Pain blossomed in her knuckle. She popped it into her mouth and sucked. The girl had scraped a good chunk of skin off, with no spark to show for it.

She tried again. And again. On the fourth try, she got a decent spark, but it landed in the dirt and fizzled away. The girl leaned closer to her little pile and aimed. This time, the spark landed on some dry pine needles. They crackled and grayed and she held her breath—until she remembered that she was supposed to blow oh-so-gently to fan it into flame.

She did, just like she had practiced with Mamá, and the pine needles caught for true. A beautiful, bright flame licked at them, then hungrily leaped for the tiny sticks, and finally for the cat droppings.

Warmth flooded her cheeks and fingers, which all began to itch. The girl was so relieved she almost cried.

But the fire was burning itself out too quickly. It wouldn’t last long enough for her to get warm, not really. There were probably more branches outside, under the snow, but she didn’t dare go out there. What if the monsters were still nearby?

The girl glanced around her tiny den. She spied another branch, a small pile of pine needles, collected in a crack. Still not enough.