Jimmy handed him the box of matches. He lit one, held his breath, then tossed it into the fire pit. He knew the wind would probably blow it out before it landed. Somehow it didn’t, and the liquid caught with a rolling flump of healthy orange flame.
“Yes,” Michael shouted in triumph.
“Yes,” Jimmy echoed behind him, grinning madly at their small victory.
“No,” Old Man Winter, the moon/skull hanging in the sky, shouted in protest.
Then the mist appeared again, and behind it, a vague shape, was Old Chip Mountain.
“Let’s go, now,” Michael shouted, bolting from the mouth of their shelter, and Jimmy followed, letting loose another triumphant whoop.
The wind blew fiercely against their backs, snow whipped around them. The ground began to shake again, and the skeletal tree rattled, but th
