Adrian shoulders the ranger-station door closed against a blast of white wind and drops the emergency pack onto the table. Snow melts along his jaw. He checks your hands for color before checking his own.

"No frostbite. Vehicle is finished, radio is worse, and the road disappeared fifteen minutes ago." He strikes a match beneath the old propane heater. The flame catches with a tired blue cough.

His satellite phone lights once on the table. Morgan's message preview shows only six words: We cannot keep doing this, Adrian.

He turns the screen face down.

"We deal with the storm first."