I feel numb everywhere, and with the warm weight of blankets and the fire...
He holds up a warning finger. I blink, struggling to stay conscious.
Somewhere in my mind swims the knowledge that sleeping during hypothermia is dangerous, and I’ve fought too hard to get this far.
So I force my eyes to remain open.
The old man disappears, and I hear pots clanging, then a kettle whistling.
Minutes later, he returns. I’ve managed to stay awake, but barely.
He says something repeatedly that sounds like “chocolate coffee” while holding out a steaming mug. Maybe I’m interpreting from the aroma—it certainly looks like hot cocoa but smells of coffee too.
He sets the mug on a rough wooden table scattered with paperback books and grabs dusty pillows from the couch.
Gently, he helps me lean against one arm of the couch, positioning pillows behind my head. Without uncovering my arms from the blankets, he lifts the heavy mug to my lips. I open my mouth wearily.
As soon as the warm—but not scalding—chocolate touches my tongue, I blink with renewed energy. These are my first calories in hours, and the heated liquid is welcome as it slides down my throat.
My body is so cold I can actually feel the path the hot drink takes to my stomach. It’s unsettling but wonderful.
Like liquid strength.
I extract my arms from beneath the blankets, carefully keeping my chest covered, and take the mug from him. The chocolate is bitter, dark, barely sweet—especially combined with coffee. But I don’t care. It’s life itself.
I drink more, and vitality seeps back into me. My chest warms further.
I cry as, for the first time in an hour, I think I might actually survive this.
The old man smiles at me.
Then he begins chattering again in his language. Now that my head is clearer, I try to parse what I’m hearing.
I listen while finishing the entire cup. Whether it’s the heat in my belly, the sustenance, or the caffeine, I feel exponentially better than when I was dragged in here.
I think he’s speaking a Slavic language, which makes sense given all the snow.
I’d hoped I was still in North America, but that seems increasingly unlikely.
“Where am I?” I attempt.
He looks at me blankly.
I gesture weakly around us. “Where?”
He chatters at me again.
I sigh and look back at the blazing fire, then wince because my eyes still hurt from snow glare.
To my shock, he disappears briefly and returns with a satellite phone.
This place looks like little more than a fortified cabin in the wilderness, yet he has a satellite phone?
“Politsiya?” he asks, ready to dial.
My mouth drops open. Do I want him calling the police? In some random Slavic country?What if I’m in Russia? We’re practically in another Cold War with them.
But if he has satellite capability, I can call anywhere in the world.
