He took a dish towel from the side rack and swept the vomit off the camp stove and onto the floor. If he was going to be trapped in here, he couldn’t have vomit everywhere. He set the paper bag sideways on the floor and mopped the upchuck sauce into it.

After the last sweep, stillness crept over the shack like a medieval court hushing before the queen enters.

He thought he heard steps outside, and placed his ear to the log wall. Something was pacing the shack—the unmistakable sound of hooves on earth. A dark shape appeared in the southern window, detailing to dark fur and a long, droopy face.

“A moose,” Matt said, overjoyed.

The wide-shouldered bull sported a majestic set of antlers. He was all muscle too, a real bruiser. Goose bumps rippled down Matt’s limbs as the moose stopped in front of the window. Its round, fearful eye was so close as its nostrils flared. And then it pressed against the window, the chocolate-colored fur flattening against the thin glass.

“Run,” he shouted at the moose. “Get out of here!”

The bull moose turned to the west, towards something out of Matt’s visual range. The moose’s eyes widened and it chuffed deeply as it thrust itself against the shack. For a moment the moose’s petrified ungulate eyes met Matt’s through the thin window. Before Matt could even pluck the slightest bit of sense from this scenario, the moose was yanked away, its enormous hooves furrowing the soil. The moose bayed and kicked as it was dragged towards the dead oak. Then it disappeared over the lip of the bowl, down into where the old farmhouse used to be. The last he saw of it was those terrified eyes staring back at him.

Up came more pancakes. This time he had the bag ready.

Sweat flecked Matt’s forehead and dampened his hair near the roots. He stared out the opening in the southern window, his heart doubling up on each second. His hands trembled, his stomach a churning sea of misery.

Think, buddy, think. He scanned his thoughts for a solution like an antivirus program scans a hard disk.

He could try to run again. There had to be other ways out. Not every possible outlet could be blocked by whatever this thing was. For some reason images of his schoolboy days flashed through his mind: stapled pieces of paper lying on a smooth desk, shiny linoleum floors and the scent of Pine-Sol. He could smell sharpened pencils and hear department store loafers shuffling.

“Taking a test?” he whispered to himself, gazing at the dead oak. Yes, a test.

Sure it might kill him, but whatever was out there was going to do that, too.

Or disable you and leave you paralyzed, the anxiety voice said. It likes to play games, Matthew.

“Or that,” he said.