My voice cracks through the stillness, too loud, swallowed almost immediately by the snow. I stumble after him, boots sinking deeper than I expect, snow spilling over the tops and soaking instantly into my socks. The cold is shocking, like a wet bite against my ankles.
Branches snag at my coat. My scarf catches on something and pulls loose, the wool sliding down around my shoulders. But I don't stop to fix it.
"Bolt, come!"
I can still hear the frantic scrabble of claws on frozen ground, the rustle and snap of underbrush. I push through a gap between two pines, their needles scraping against my hat, and nearly trip over a buried log hidden beneath the snow. My arms windmill for balance.
My heart pounds, more from adrenaline than exertion.
I stop, panting, and listen.
Nothing.
The wind picks up. It wasn't blowing before, or maybe I just didn't notice. Now it hisses through the branches overhead, a low, persistent sound that grows louder with each gust. It shakes loose clumps of snow that fall in soft thumps around me, landing on my shoulders, on the ground, disappearing into the accumulation.
I turn in a slow circle, scanning the trees, squinting through the falling snow.
Everything looks the same.
Tall, dark trunks. White ground. Gray sky pressing down through the canopy. No movement. No flash of white fur. No sound except the wind.
"Bolt!"
My voice sounds smaller now, the storm already swallowing more of it. The snow is falling hard enough that I can't see more than thirty feet in any direction. Everything beyond that is just vague and indistinct shapes.
I turn back the way I came, looking for my footprints.
They're already filling in. In another few minutes, they'll be invisible.
My breathing is loud in my ears now. The cold is sharper too, biting through my pants where wet snow clings to the denim, through my gloves where the fabric is damp.
My fingers are starting to ache.
The slope beneath my feet feels too steep, angling down when I'm sure it should be level. Or maybe I'm imagining it. Maybe panic is already distorting everything.
I stop again, forcing myself to stand still, to breathe, to think.
The wind gusts again, harder, and snow stings my face like tiny needles. I pull my scarf back up over my nose and mouth, but my fingers fumble with the fabric. They're already numb inside my gloves, clumsy and slow.
"Bolt!"
My voice cracks.
Nothing answers except the wind.
I keep moving, telling myself I'm heading in the right direction, that if I just stay calm and keep going I'll find the trail or the road or something familiar. But the trees all look the same. The snow erases everything. My thighs burn. Each step feels heavier than the last.
I don't know how long I've been walking when I realize I'm shaking.
I stop and brace one hand against a tree trunk, trying to catch my breath. My chest feels tight, like there's a band around my ribs squeezing tighter with each inhale.
My legs feel heavy. Unsteady.
I'm lost, and the storm is getting worse, and I don't have my phone because I left it in the car because I thought this would take fifteen minutes and I wouldn't need it.
The panic I've been holding back rises fast and sharp, clawing up my throat.
I press my forehead against the tree and close my eyes, forcing myself to breathe slowly.
