She came across a cabin just before dusk. It was half-collapsed, an old ranger post, long abandoned. The windows were shattered, the roof sagging under the weight of snow, but the stone fireplace looked intact. She approached it cautiously, pushing the door open with her shoulder. The hinges groaned but held. Inside, the air was stale, cold, but not as harsh as outside.
She closed the door behind her and slid the broken lock into place. It wouldn't stop that thing, but maybe it would buy her a few seconds if it found her. She dropped her pack, shaking from cold and fatigue, and moved to the fireplace. A rusted metal box in the corner held a few sticks of dry wood and a half-used matchbox. Her fingers fumbled as she tried to strike the match, the cold making her clumsy, but after the third try, the flame caught. Soon, the fire was crackling softly, casting flickering shadows against the wood and stone.
