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hydro was out — a good possibility, given the power of the wind. But even if the electricity was off, there would be candlelight, lanterns, something. Maybe, I thought as my spirits fell again, it was only a crossroads. Should I risk getting lost stumbling around in the gale, searching for a shed or a barn, or should I stay in the van and try to keep myself from dying from the cold?
    Always stay with the boat was a rule drummed into my head every summer when I went to camp on the other side of Lake Couchiching. If your canoe overturns, if your sailboat capsizes, never try to swim for shore. Stay with the boat. Always. No exceptions. You’ll be tempted to swim for it. Don’t.
    So I’d stay with the van. But I could try to probe the snowfall with the flashlight, get a better look. I turned on the parking lights to give me a point of orientation once I was outside, pulled up my hood, tied the strings under my chin and put on the heavy mitts. I slid over to the passenger side, pushed open the door and got out, sinking to my knees. With a gnawing sense of futility, I shone the flashlight into the storm. I saw nothing but a shifting white wall, then the luminescent outline of the stop signwinked in and out of view with the pulsing of the wind. I scoured to the right of the sign. Gradually, though the surging and waning of the blizzard, something seemed to form itself. It was a small building.
    Leaning into the wind, I waded back to the lee side of the van. From under the seat I took a length of rope I had used to tie down the dresser. I secured one end to the door handle, grabbed the survival kit, which now contained only the sleeping bag, and, playing out the rope as I went, stumbling through drifts toward the building.
    I found the door easily enough, kicked snow out of the way, pulled it open to reveal an inner door. It was locked.
    I tied the rope to the skeleton of a bush and stashed the bag between the doors to keep it dry. Then, guided by the rope, I plowed back to the van. I turned off the parking lights. The wind had picked up, and by the time I had returned to the door with a tire iron my teeth were chattering. If I was lucky, the cabin would have a fireplace or stove.
    A few blows with the tire iron tore the rusted hasp out of the door frame and the lock dropped to my feet. I stepped inside and pulled the doors shut. I was safe.

chapter     
    T he cabin — or whatever it was — had one room, about ten feet by twelve, with a dozen or so benches in the middle, most of them arranged in two banks with an aisle up the middle, a few overturned. Some kind of meeting house, I figured. The still, frigid air, the inky black at the edge of the pool of light cast by the flashlight, the shadows that stretched away from me across the floor and up the walls combined to create an eerie atmosphere.
    I stood by the door and played the light around the room. The side walls had two large windows each, made up of square panes. At the far end of the room was a table, and in the corner lay a broken lectern. The wall showed the faint outline of a large cross.Now I knew what kind of meeting place it was.
    I said a silent Hooray when I caught sight of a small stove and a stack of wood in the corner. My footsteps thumped hollowly on the wooden floor, my breath formed frost clouds before me. As I neared one of the windows I took a look outside.
    A hooded figure stood out there, watching me.
    The flashlight crashed to the floor and rolled away, the light beam wobbling crazily until it came to rest, sending a streak of light up the wall where the cross had hung. I stood frozen to the spot, heart hammering.
    The window was dark again and I saw nothing. I side-stepped slowly over to the flashlight. I stayed clear of the beam so whoever was out there couldn’t see me. When my brain began to function again I realized that whoever it was would need to come in.
    But who was he? What was he doing, on foot, out in the storm? I bent slowly and