Afon snorts. "The biggest risk he presents is kissing you to death."
I look at Wolf, who has flopped onto his back on the braided rug in front of the fire, all four legs lolling in the air. His tongue hangs out of his mouth and one ear is flipped inside out.
"On second thought," I concede, "you might be right. He doesn't look very wolfish."
Afon glances at the dog and very nearly smiles. "Don't tell him that."
I sit up, much more slowly than yesterday—fool me twice and all that—and take a breath as the headache makes itself known again. It's duller than last night, more of a persistent, low-grade throb than the full-blown orchestral percussion section it wasbefore. The ibuprofen must have done some work while I was out.
Speaking of being out: How long didthatlast? I was only going to rest my eyes for a minute. That minute appears to have lasted about ten hours, because the light filtering through the cabin windows is gray and pale and distinctly morning-ish.
I look toward the window and freeze.
"Afon."
"Hm?"
"It's... snowing."
"Hm." He follows my gaze. "So it would seem."
I stand up from the couch. My left ankle protests this decision, but not enough to stop me from limping to the window and pressing my face to the glass like a kid outside a toy store on Christmas morning.
Except this is not a magical winter wonderland.
This is aproblem.
The clearing around the cabin is buried under what has to be at least eight or nine inches of snow, and it's still coming down thick and fast, fat flakes spiraling through the air like someone emptied a celestial down pillow. The trees at the edge of the clearing are heavy with it, their branches sagging low.
And the trail I came in on?
Gone. Completely, utterly gone. Buried under a blanket of white that extends unbroken in every direction.
Oh, shit.
I think I might be stuck.
"So," I say, trying to sound casual as I turn around to face him again. "Seems like I'm stuck here."
Afon is fiddling with a pan on the stove, his broad back to me. He grunts wordlessly in response.
"For, like... a while, probably. Based on the snow situation."
He cracks an egg one-handed. Why is that hot? It definitely shouldn't be.
"Which means," I continue blathering on, "that your whole 'sleep, leave, never come back' plan has hit a little bit of a snag."
He still doesn't look up, but I see tension in the slope of his shoulders. "The snow will stop."
"Sure. And then it'll melt. But not right away. In what—a day? Two? Three? A week?"
"You'll be fine."
"You're not seriously thinking of sending me out in that, are you?" I bleat in alarm. "I'm supposed to just go wandering through a foot of snow with a sprained ankle and a head wound? I'll die!"
He chuckles. "Tempting."
"You don't mean that."
