I shivered until my muscles cramped, then until my jaw hurt, then until the shaking slowed, and when warmth began blooming in my chest, seductive and wrong, Ranger reacted before my mind could register the danger, growling and licking my face aggressively, snapping me back into awareness just as my fingers fumbled with my zipper.
He knew what hypothermia did before I did.
Somewhere in the dark, coyotes started calling.
Not one, not two, but many, their voices overlapping, frantic and hungry, and Ranger’s posture changed completely, his body stiffening, his attention locking onto the darkness beyond the branches, no longer just a dog but something older, something meant to stand between danger and what it loved.
They came closer.
I could see their eyes eventually, flickers of yellow through snow, and when one lunged, Ranger exploded out of the shelter, meeting it head-on with a violence that shocked me, teeth flashing, bodies colliding, snow erupting around them.
He was outnumbered.
He was hurt.
But he didn’t retreat.
By the time the coyotes withdrew, deciding whatever we were wasn’t worth the blood, Ranger collapsed beside me, shaking, bleeding, alive.
