I don’t give a shit what the Being thinks, he thought. I need to find a weakness. If red antagonizes the Being, maybe I’m onto something.

Matt didn’t put his boots on. Instead, he set them before the fireplace and started a fire.

He held his hands to the flames, desperate for warmth. He hadn’t realized how cold he was.

His fingers burned as they thawed. Nice. His thoughts flickered like the flames, from his family and to the Being.

He wondered why the Being left him alone at night.

A log spit a fire cherry and he dodged it. He picked up the ember with his naked hand and tossed it into the fire. That kind of pain was minuscule compared to what he’d been through. A joke, actually. Haha, hehe.

Why didn’t the Being bother him at night? He blinked twice in the stillness, and the answer came to him from the tip of a flame: the Being sleeps at night.

Perhaps another test, Matthew? the little voice asked. You could run out of here right now, full speed and maybe get out before the Puller knows you’re gone.

Matt felt the bump on his temple. He didn’t want another knock, not today. And besides, he wasn’t sure he’d survive any more of those. Also, how many escape attempts would the Being tolerate? Perhaps its quota changed based on mood. He’d forced the Being to search for him far and wide the last twenty-four hours. He didn’t need the Being more angry than it already was. Oh no sir, he didn’t need that at all.

Warmth toasted his bones as his skin pulled tight around the cuts and scrapes, the white blood cells fighting, weakening enemy forces. He stood slowly and went to the shelf. At the far end, near the woodburning stove he found a stack of old newspapers with a yellow sticky note that said DO NOT THROW OUT. He pulled them down and returned to the fire.

They were newspaper clippings from across the U.P. Some of them contained local fishing stories which Ron and his father had enjoyed. Ron was even pictured in one of the clippings holding a trophy steelhead from the lower Black. Ron was wearing his aviator shades, cigarette tucked between his ear—a Ron trademark. The birch and pine of the lower Black framed him, and as Matt examined the photo, he smelled the air down there—the thickness of it amongst the seagulls and choke-berry bushes. Soon his eyes pooled with moisture, and the paper shook in his hand. He really missed his father and Ron. They’d taught him a great may things, but most of all he missed the humor.