The cold felt different today.
Still sharp, still biting, but no longer surprising. Jake's body had stopped fighting it. His skin stayed numb most mornings, and his breath misted in short, shallow bursts as he crawled out of the hollow. The soreness in his muscles, the ache in his stomach — all old companions now.
The air smelled wet. The snow had thinned in patches, leaving slick, frozen mud beneath. Thin sheets of ice coated puddles near the stream. The sun hung low, a pale, distant smear in a sky the color of old paper.
He drank from the stream with careful hands. The water tasted better after sitting still overnight, clearer, less muddy. He didn't know if it was safer. Didn't care. It went down easier than it had days before.
That meant something.
Jake wiped his mouth on his sleeve and scanned the trees.
No movement.
A week ago — or maybe it was two — he would've called that a bad omen. Now it felt like breathing room.
The fire pit by his hollow was little more than a ring of blackened stone. He knelt beside it, turning damp, broken branches in his hands, testing for dry spots under the bark.
It was habit now.
A thing he did without thinking.
Most were too wet, but one… one snapped clean in his hands. The inside dry as bone.
Jake blinked.
He broke another, smaller twig from the pile.
Dry.
The smallest, dumbest thing, but his chest tightened like he'd won something.
He arranged the twigs into a loose bundle, then added curls of dead grass, scraped thin with his pocketknife. The motion felt smoother today. Not effortless, but less clumsy. His fingers didn't fumble as much.
He struck a spark.
It hissed.
Nothing.
He tried again.
The spark caught.
Just a faint glow at first — a thread of orange in the dark mess of kindling.
Jake blew on it, careful, steady.
The ember bloomed, caught the grass, and spread to the dry twigs. Tiny flames licked at the branches, snapping soft and blue in the cold air.
His hands shook.
Not from cold this time.
It was a good fire.
Not huge. Not long-lasting. But clean, hot, and fast.
He held his hands out over it, letting warmth creep back into his fingers. His skin stung, pink from the cold. The ache in his joints dulled.
A small victory.
For the first time in days — maybe weeks — Jake didn't immediately think about moving camp or setting a snare or what might be waiting in the trees.
He just sat there.
Letting the fire warm him.
Letting it be enough.
The wind rattled through the trees, stirring the embers. Jake added another dry twig, watching the flames climb higher.
His stomach cramped, a reminder it wasn't a perfect day.
But he didn't feel hopeless.
Not like before.
Not like when every trap he'd set came up empty, when his hands bled from carving arrow shafts, when he thought about just lying down in the snow and letting the cold do what it wanted.
This was something.
Better than nothing.
After a while, he got up and checked the line of simple snares he'd laid two days before — a crude ring of wire near the stream, another looped through a narrow trail he'd seen animals using after the storm.
No rabbits.
But one snare was disturbed. Half-pulled from its place, the loop twisted. No blood. No fur.
Still. Something had come through.
It meant he wasn't wasting his time.
Jake knelt and reset the wire, tightening the knot, smoothing the trail around it. His fingers worked faster, less clumsy. He wasn't good at this yet — not like his dad would've been — but it wasn't guesswork anymore.
He knew what to look for.
What to avoid.
He tracked prints in the snow a little way before they vanished into the brush. Fox, maybe. Too fast for him. Too smart.
He left it.
Back at camp, the fire was still alive, coals glowing bright in the pit. He added more twigs and watched it flare back to life.
A good fire.
He grinned, just a little. It felt weird on his face.
Unfamiliar.
Not a laugh.
Not even a smile.
But something.
As the sun dipped lower, Jake worked on a better shelter. He found a thick branch fallen from an old pine and dragged it back. Stuck it into the earth beside the hollow. Fastened his torn tarp over it at a slant with wire, building a crude lean-to.
The tarp stretched tight enough to shed water now.
Another small win.
By the time dusk fell, Jake had a fire, a half-stable shelter, and dry kindling for tomorrow.
His stomach still hurt.
His throat still scratched.
But for the first time in days, the cold didn't feel like it was clawing at his bones.
He sat by the fire, his hands warmed, and let the silence settle. The night sounds didn't spook him as much. A distant owl hooted. Leaves shifted. Somewhere far off, a walker groaned.
Jake didn't move.
Didn't reach for his bow.
The dead would come if they came.
Same as always.
But tonight, he had a fire.
A real one.
And it made the dark feel a little smaller.
He pulled his jacket tight and leaned back against the dirt wall.
Tomorrow, he'd check the snares earlier.
Maybe test a new spot near the ridge.
He didn't think about his parents this time.
Didn't need to.
Because tomorrow, he had work to do.