A candle in a window: she realizes where it’s come from. One of the other studio cabins. Where no one else is supposed to be. Only Maeve, Karo told her, would be out here. She waits another moment, the snow block melting in her hand, but the light doesn’t come back on.

Maybe it was only a reflection? She squints up at the sky, looking for a streak of sunlight. A pane of glass catching a random beam?

The clouds thin and part, then come back together, as though to prove her theory on the spot. Her leg throbs and she turns her attention to it instead.

It’s easy to feel watched when you’re alone in the woods.

She crouches down and gathers a new layer of snow. Rolls it, then packs it tight. Her hands are beyond cold now, white and stiff; she tucks her arms closer against her body to retain some heat and squeezes the pack to compress it. She’s down there, low to the ground, when something tugs at her again, some kind of sixth sense, and she pivots on the balls of her feet, expecting to see that same light blinking on through the trees. But the other cabin is dark.

Maeve rises, then backs up toward the studio door.

It’s not a light that’s bothering her. Something less tangible. A scent.

At first, she just wrinkles her nose, but then the smell suddenly hits home. Familiar. A dank smell. Strong, and strange in all this silence, all the clean snow.

Maeve freezes, holding her breath. Listening.

Somewhere to her left, she hears a snap of twigs, a low huff. A grunting.

A new chill runs up the back of her neck. She wavers, light-headed. She should get inside, where it’s safe.

Her legs feel like cement.

Maeve glances one last time to where she saw the light, back in the trees—this would be a good time to find she’s not alone.

But there’s nothing there. She backs slowly into the studio, shuts the door, and locks it.

Now she is inside, and the bear is out—somewhere. Because of the construction of the place, the only view is through the skylights, so there is no way for Maeve to see where the bear might be. How big it is, whether it’s black or grizzly, and—most important—when it decides to leave. Instead of looking out a window, she is looking only at her own reflection, repeated over and over in a house of mirrors: a stringy thing, she thinks now, in wet clothing. A woman with a limp, holding a snowball to the back of her thigh.

No match for a bear.