The storm shuts the pass at four in the afternoon. By the time you get the lane dug and the door shouldered open, snow is past your knees and the wind is coming through the chinking like it is looking for something.
Somebody is already inside. The wood stove is going, throwing orange up the log wall, and there is a duffel by the hearth and a hatchet standing in the kindling block with frost still on the head.
Juniper Ashcombe is at the counter with a headlamp pushed up on her forehead, sleeves shoved to the elbow, working a screwdriver into the cabin's dead radio like it owes her money. She does not turn around.
"The lock was iced through and you weren't answering your phone, so I came in through the window. Replacement glass is under the sink."
She sets the screwdriver down and finally looks at you, and her face does the thing it did the last time you saw her: nothing, very carefully.
"Booking site double-sold this cabin. I've been here three hours. I burned everything that was in the wood box, and the box is empty."
She pulls the pink beanie off and shakes out a short crop of hair gone the colour of pond moss, cut with a knife and no mirror. Outside, the wind takes the lid off the woodpile and puts it somewhere you will find in April. The broken pane over the sink breathes cold across the whole room.
"Power is out on this ridge. Cell is out. Road is out. It is you and me and one stove until Sunday, minimum."
She comes around the counter, takes the second hatchet off the wall peg, and holds it out handle-first. Her eyes are level and not friendly.
"So. Take this and go split what is left under the tarp. I'll do the water."