Resigned, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, exhaled, and no longer feared the bear. Instead, awe and respect replaced fear. The damn thing was keeping him warm, too. He could even smell the wildness of it. This was an animal that roamed near his beloved shack—near the place that had always been home to him. Before the Being ruined everything.

It was never about the shack, Matthew, the little voice said. Think about it.

He listened to the bear snore, feeding off the power. Lying next to the creature, he sensed a positive force from the land he’d always loved. The bear represented everything—the woods, the rivers, the mountains. It was living proof of this vital ecosystem, an ecosystem that existed before the Being caught him and one that will exist long after the Being is gone.

Images of his Michigan experiences flashed before him: feasting on wild trout at the main pool of the Black River, fishing the tiny pools of the upper Black as a child, hiking the granite Hurons with his father, eating wild berries by the bucketful, the lingering sunsets over Lake Superior, the sound of water sluicing through the slate canyons during spring runoff and movement in the woods, always movement in the woods. This place was a big, heaving, breathing ball of life, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich smashed down and squeezing out the sides.

Take a freaking bite, he thought.

The bear’s flank rose and fell. Every exhale was medicine, filling the den with power.

Matt flicked off the light.

Maybe it never was about the shack, he thought. It was just a place to stay, an attempt to reconnect with the natural world. A portal, if you will. And maybe that’s how the Being got here. Maybe from a portal.

His eyes flickered in the darkness, his breath silent compared to the boisterous bear.

Maybe you can find that portal, the little voice whispered. Wouldn’t that be a neat trick?

It would be Houdini on steroids, he thought.

He clasped his hands together and accidentally elbowed the bear, triggering a grunt and a sloppy muzzle lick.

How did I get the knife back? he asked the little voice. It must have fallen from my pocket when I was underwater and sunk to the bottom.

There was no answer.

He tried again. How did I get the knife back?

Matt stared into the darkness, his upper lip quivering, waiting for an answer.

From a friend, the little voice said.

What friend? he asked.

You have friends, Matthew. Don’t act so surprised. You’ve always had friends.

You mean Jim and the others back in the suburbs? he asked the voice. No. I mean friends with a capital F, Matthew. You’ve always had them.

So a friend got my knife back?