Panic is loud inside your head but useless everywhere else, and Ranger seemed to understand that instinctively, because while I shook and cried and tried to decide whether to run after the truck or stay where I was, he made the decision for both of us.
He turned toward the trees.
A stand of dense firs lay a short distance off the road, their lower branches sagging under snow, creating pockets of shadow beneath them, and Ranger started moving that way, then stopped, looked back at me, and barked, sharp and commanding, not like a pet asking permission but like a leader expecting obedience.
I didn’t argue.
Every step through the drifts felt like lifting my legs out of wet cement, my shoes soaking through almost immediately, the cold climbing my calves with a kind of intent, but Ranger kept breaking trail, checking on me every few steps, nudging me upright when I stumbled, refusing to let me stop.
Under the trees, the wind lost its teeth.
It still howled above us, rattling branches, dumping snow in heavy sighs, but down near the ground, the air was calmer, and Ranger led me to the base of a massive fir whose branches swept low enough to form a natural shelter.
We crawled inside.
The ground there was covered in needles instead of snow, dry and dark, and I curled up instinctively, pulling my arms in tight, while Ranger pressed his entire body along my side, radiating heat like a living furnace.
Time stopped behaving normally.
