The shack was freezing. Not normal cold. This was a mean, wet cold that got in your lungs and made your bones ache. The place smelled like mildew, old blood, and the pine branches we’d thrown on the dirt floor to keep the mud down.
Borealis was shaking bad.
Not shivering. Shaking. Like something inside him was coming loose. He had a blanket wrapped around him but it didn’t help. His hands—big enough to crush a skull—couldn’t keep hold of his tea mug. It trembled, sloshing hot water on his leg. He didn’t even blink.
I watched him from the rickety table. Had a map open. Didn’t matter. The real terrain was in his eyes.
Kenji was cleaning his rifle again. Click, scrape, click. Third time this morning. I knew why. Keep the hands busy so the head doesn’t go somewhere dark.
“The ice,” Boreal
