10
Refuge in a Storm
His face is wet.
Peter blinks at the large snowflakes drifting toward him, settling on his eyebrows and cheeks. He shifts, trying to stand up, when he touches something soft. A furry back, another body next to it, snuffling sounds.
He shrinks back. Then he recognizes the elongated snout. The dog lifts its head, the golden eyes almost shut with snow and ice hanging off the lashes and the long-matted fur.
“Lioba, what are you doing?” In a panic, Peter starts to pull on the lump next to the dog. “Get up.”
No response. Peter takes a handful of snow and rubs it over the girl’s face. “Wake up. You are going to freeze to death. You cannot stay here.”
“Why do you have to bother me?” Lioba groans. “I was just getting comfortable.”
“Exactly,” Peter says. “That is what ma
