“Go on, get yourself ready. I need a moment to clear my head.” But as she rises to her feet, Karo suddenly looks up. “And, Maeve—” She holds a hand out, as though she could catch Maeve’s arm. “There’s a cane, back in the closet in my office.” She pauses, steadying herself. “I need to use the bathroom and I won’t be able to walk without it.”

The toolbox, plus whatever Karo salvaged as Dan loaded up his pack the day before, is tucked just inside her office door. Toolbox is a misnomer, Maeve finds. Not a toolbox at all but a large plastic storage container with a tight-fitting lid, the sort of thing Maeve herself uses to store Christmas decorations in the off-season, tucked away under her basement stairs.

Maeve cracks the box’s lid and pulls it back.

On top, there’s the tarp that Dan left behind, which Karo has folded up like a parcel: Maeve pulls this out first. Tucked inside, surplus flares and two cans of bear spray. In the tool bin proper there are a couple of cans of fire starter, a flashlight, six more flares, two neon safety vests, a small hacksaw, an ice pick, a camp stove. A bottle purifier plus two packs of tablets. A blue zip case for first aid containing latex gloves and bandages, disinfectant, a splint, a pharmacy bottle of penicillin. At the bottom of the tub, buried, she finds the fluorescent trail markers along with two rolls of duct tape.

But no snowshoes, not inside the tub or anywhere in the room. She swears under her breath: Dan has locked the extra pairs away. When she combs through the desk, she finds an envelope marked storage keys—but it’s empty and she realizes he’s taken the keys with him. The two women are not supposed to go outside, and this is another way for him to control that, even from a distance.

She pulls on a heavy coat she finds hanging on the back of the door and sinks her hands into the deep pockets. Her own boots, meant for city snow and warmer climes, will have to do.