“If I ever get back to Florida, I am never going to leave,” he vowed through chattering teeth, wrapping a blanket around his right fist. Then he flipped the bucket over, stood on it, and, with all his strength, punched the window.

It shattered. Ángel fell backward off his makeshift stool and landed on the ground, clutching his hand between his thighs in agony. After a few minutes of silent breathless cursing, he crawled to his feet, unwrapped his right hand. He flexed his fingers, which didn’t want to straighten all the way—cold, or broken?

That was his pick hand. If it was broken . . . He remembered his crushed guitar and almost started crying again. No, come on, Ángel. He needed to get out now, before someone noticed the broken window. If they hadn’t noticed already.

Keep going. Pushing past his fear and pain, he climbed back up onto the bucket. He used his left hand to clear the shards of glass out of the window frame. No one was around, thank God—he still seemed to be undetected. Then he hoisted himself up and crawled out the window. He got snagged on a hidden chunk of glass, clawed himself loose with the sound of tearing denim and a sharp stabbing pain in his hip, and then he was out, rolling in a snowbank.

From the watery sunlight streaming through the trees, it seemed to be midafternoon. He staggered to his feet and limped stealthily toward the cabin, unhappily aware that he was leaving a trail of footprints in the snow that an idiot could follow. But the woods were silent. He didn’t see anyone around.

There was a large, well-used-looking blue pickup truck parked in front of the cabin, but two of the snowmobiles were gone. He crept around the cabin, peeping in windows, scalp prickling with fright. He saw no one.

Had they left? Could he have gotten that lucky?

He tried the front door—it was unlocked. Quietly he let himself into the cabin and closed the door behind him and stood listening. The cabin seemed to be just three rooms, all of which he could see from where he hovered in the doorway: the kitchen/living room where he stood, one bedroom, and one bathroom. All empty. He relaxed. Maybe he could find a phone, or—

The pile of afghans on the couch shifted and mumbled, and Ángel nearly had a heart attack. Ron, the weaselly young guy, was there on the couch, buried in blankets. Ángel didn’t breathe while Ron rolled over and sighed, apparently fast asleep.

Ángel removed his boots, and, in his socked feet, throbbing hand squeezed into his armpit, he searched the cabin. Fast and silent, hoping to find a weapon, or incriminating evidence, or a way to escape. Kitchen cabinets. Bathroom vanity. Bedroom dresser, shelves. Ron did not stir. In the bedside table Ángel found a roll of cash—three hundred dollars—which he pocketed.