"Wet clothes will kill you faster than the cold. Strip, get dry, wrap up in the blankets. I'll make tea."
He turns his back, giving me privacy, and I realize he's right. My jeans are soaked through, my jacket's more ice than fabric at this point. I peel off the wet layers with numb fingers, struggling into the dry clothes he provided. They're men's sizes, hanging off my frame, but they're clean and dry and warm.
"Done," I say, and he turns back, handing me a steaming mug.
It's pine needle tea, bitter but hot. I wrap my frozen fingers around the mug, feeling returning to my extremities in painful prickles.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He's standing by the door, watching me with sharp gray eyes. Not threatening exactly, but clearly ready for trouble. Smart man. In this world, trust gets you killed.
"Where's the rest of your group?" he asks.
"Don't know. The convoy got separated in the storm. Our truck rolled about a mile back, maybe more. Hard to judge distance in whiteout conditions." I take another sip of tea, using the time to assess him. Solid build, moves with confidence, place is too well-maintained to be anything but long-term. This isn't someone squatting in an abandoned building. "My driver's dead."
"Raiders?"
"No. Ice and bad luck." I meet his eyes directly, knowing he needs to see I'm not lying. "I'm alone. I swear it. I just need shelter until the storm passes."
"And then?"
"Then I wait for my convoy at our rendezvous point. We have protocols—if we get separated, we meet at Dawson Ridge in one week. Seven days from today."
He studies me for a moment longer, and I can practically see him weighing options. Let me stay and risk bringing trouble to his door, or throw me back into the storm and live with whatever happens.
"One week," he finally says. "You can stay until your people come get you. That's it."
"Deal," I agree quickly. A week is more than I hoped for. "Thank you."
He moves to the kitchen area, starts pulling food from organized shelves. Everything in this place has a system, I notice. Supplies labeled and dated, tools hung precisely on walls, firewood stacked by size. This isn't just someone surviving—this is someone who's turned survival into an art form.
"When's the last time you ate?" he asks, breaking into my observations.
"Yesterday morning. Maybe. Time gets fuzzy on the road."
"I'll make something. You stay by the fire, get warm."
I want to protest that I don't need coddling, but honestly, I can barely feel my toes. So I stay put, taking in more details of the cabin. The furniture is handmade but quality work—real joinery, not just nails and hope. There's a radio setup in one corner that looks functional, maybe even better than what we had in the convoy. Books on a shelf, actual books, not just survival manuals. A guitar leaning in the corner.
"You build all this yourself?" I ask.
"Most of it."
"How long have you been here?"
"Two years, give or take."
"Alone?"
He glances at me, something unreadable in his expression. "That a problem?"
"No. Just impressive. Most solo survivors don't last six months out here."
"I'm not most."
That's becoming very obvious. Everything about this place speaks to long-term planning, systematic thinking, the kind of competence that keeps you alive when everyone else is dying.
He brings me a bowl of stew—actual stew with meat and vegetables, not the watery soup most settlements survive on. My stomach growls so loud it's embarrassing.
