The shed was, like most sheds, dusty and stale, a small box with one door and one high, cobwebby glass window. There were electric power outlets in the walls, and tidy shelves and cabinets. In the summer it was probably home to spiders; now it was bitterly cold, far too cold for anything to live. The light bulb was giving off a bit of heat, but not enough.

He dug in the cabinets, where he found some folded wool blankets, some sleeping bags, the promised bucket. And—“Oh yes, thank you,” he breathed—a small electric space heater.

But there was no food or water. He was thirsty and, to his surprise, queasily hungry.

Nose wrinkling, he used the bucket, then covered it with a folded tarp. He swathed himself in blankets, positioned the space heater to blow on him, plugged it in, and turned it on. Its elements glowed red, and for several minutes he huddled in front of it and bathed in its warmth.

Then there was a snap, and both the space heater and the overhead light died.

Hmm. He’d blown a breaker. He heard his father’s voice in his head: “Old wiring. Too much load on the circuit. You should have turned the light off before you turned on the heater.”

No problem. He stood up, wrapping a blanket around himself like a shawl, turned off the light switch and unplugged the heater, and began hunting for the circuit box by the sunlight slanting in through the dirty window.

He didn’t find the circuit box. It was probably in the cabin.

“Fuck.” His voice was shivering. “Oh, goddamn it. Oh, motherfucking shit.”

Now he was in real trouble.

It was extremely cold. This shed was uninsulated and unheated, and he’d just blown the power. With nothing but his damp coat and some blankets to protect him, he could die out here. He would die out here, unless he located a source of heat. The kidnappers wouldn’t have to kill him; they’d find him frozen like an ice cream bar.

For a moment Ángel wavered, on the brink of collapsing to the floor again. He was too scared, too cold. It was too much. A vicious cycle, like when Oberon grieved, and couldn’t stop grieving.

No. He clenched his jaw.

“Don’t set the shed on fire,” Aaron had commanded.

I will burn this fucker down.

He hunted through the cabinets. To his frustration, he found everything you might possibly need for a camping trip except something to make a fire: air mattresses, tents, backpacks, snowshoes, skis. No lighters, no matches, no flint and steel, no batteries, no cans of gasoline, no bullets. Nothing he could use.

His fingers grew bright red and clumsy, and his feet, in their boots, went totally numb. His breath was steaming, and he was shivering constantly.