The wind howls like a hungry spirit as I hammer the last storm window shut. My hands are raw, but the real chill is deeper—fear. Fresh bear tracks, massive and close, circle the woodpile I just stacked. Every snapped twig echoes like a footfall. Inside, the cabin smells of pine tar and damp wool, my only fortress against the coming freeze and the shadows outside. I ration my coffee, listening. Forty-eight hours alone means no help if those claws find the weak spot in my door. Winter’s teeth are bared, but the bears… the bears are already here. I blow out the lamp, praying the darkness hides me too.
