The first order of business was to get the Ski-Doo fueled up. Cal said he had a plan. He wouldn’t say what, not yet, and Nate wasn’t really sure he had a plan at all, but he was glad to be doing something, anything. He hopped on the sled and started her up. She purred. Not a big purr — not a growl worthy of a big cat — but the contented purr of a fat old tom well looked after. Nate revved the motor; he knew this machine pretty well. He swung it around the bright-white expanse of the yard a couple times, liking the feel of the wind in his face after being cooped up inside so long. Liked the cleanness of the air after the stink of injury. Then he slewed over to the shed in back of the cabin where they kept the Kawasaki ATV and, in a room off it, all the various blends of fuel they used for the outboard motor, the pump, the chain saw, the lawn mower, et cetera. There were extra propane cylinders there as well. Good to know, as far as keeping the oven working if he was going to be stuck here any length of time.

There was a shovel hanging on the outside wall of the shed. The invaders had dug out the doors to get the auger, and for the first time on this whole ill-fated trip, the wind seemed to have actually done Nate a favor: the new snowfall wasn’t as thick in front of the shed doors as he might have expected. He made short work of it, energized at the thought of getting away. Right now, getting away seemed the most desirable alternative. Without his phone, he wasn’t sure what time it was, but it was still early enough to catch the Budd. That’s what he wanted more than anything, and now he had a means of getting out to the track. He unlocked the door, opened it just enough to squeeze through.

Hell, he could go now!

Just fuel up and leave the old man where he was. Cal was bandaged and warm and God knows he seemed feisty enough. He could probably drag himself to the fridge for some food. After all, he’d been living in the place for days, seemed to use it whenever he felt like it! Nate was suddenly seized by rage. That old man in there was the architect of everything that had gone wrong. He was the one who’d brought these criminals to the camp — one of them a murderer!

Just leave him! Get out to the Budd, and when you’re safe onboard, ask the conductor to radio medevac. And the police while you’re at it.

Split. Get out of here. Let people who know what they’re doing do what they’re paid to do.

He stood there, his hot breath blooming into frozen vapor in front of his face. “That’s the spirit, Numbster,” said a familiar voice in his head. “Let the old bastard cool his heels — literally!”

“Calm down,” said the voice of his father.

No, Dad, Dodge is right. Doesn’t this all sound way too familiar? Didn’t Cal almost get you killed, too? That’s what he wanted to say to Burl. And in his mind, his father nodded but didn’t say anything else. Nate stood there in the dimness of the shed with its fumes and the hardness and smell of frozen earth below his feet. “Hear him out,” his father said. “You don’t need to obey him. You don’t owe him that.”

This is my place, Nate thought. And the father in his head was silent but nodded knowingly, agreeing with him. After all, Nate had passed the test. “I can look out for myself,” said Nate, out loud this time. And the father in him said, “You can. But can you look out for the likes of someone like Shaker?”

Nate screwed the top on the gasoline can extra tight after he’d finished with it and put it back where it was stored, nice and neat. He locked the shed door.

The next thing on Cal’s to-do list he felt even more uncertain about. He powered the snowmobile through the break of trees that separated the Crow camp from the Hoebeeks’ place and around to the front deck. He entered through the door, which he’d left unlocked. The camp had cooled down again. It felt strange to be here, even with the light pouring in — maybe especially because of the light. It had been the scene of so many good times: wild board games on rainy days, a hundred noisy lunchtimes. And now it was also the site of the most harrowing twenty-four hours of his life. He looked at the back door barricaded by the old chair. Snow, with the help of the bully wind, had made a forced entrance, if only around the edges, and lay gathered in low drifts at the feet of the chair. Nate’s boots echoed as he made his way to the master bedroom, to the closet, but the Remington wasn’t there. Then he remembered. He’d taken it upstairs, which was where he found it, lying on the bunk, loaded and ready to go. He grabbed a box of shells as he was leaving. He had a very bad feeling about this.

“An 870,” said Cal, taking the gun from him. He was still in his chair by the fire. He looked the gun over, saw the trigger lock. “What’s the combination?” he said. Nate swallowed hard. Cal looked up at him and his dark eyebrows knitted together. “Oh, for Christ’s sake boy, don’t get all gummy-brained on me now.”

“I don’t want you firing this thing in the camp.”

“Well, let’s hope it don’t come to that. But we gotta be ready for the worst.”

It made sense, being ready for the worst. That’s why Art Hoebeek had bought the gun in the first place. But Burl had not been pleased about it. Nate could remember the look on his father’s face. “Why is it,” he’d said, “that planning for the worst is the most likely way to ensure it happens?” But it wasn’t Burl’s place to say what Art Hoebeek did or didn’t do, although he did convince his neighbor to get the trigger lock.

“Boy? You still with us?”

He looked at Cal, who was waiting on him, waiting for an answer, with nothing approaching patience on his face.

“The name’s Nate. Remember? And I don’t want to be cleaning up any blood.”

“Good point,” said Cal, nodding. “And the beauty of it is that if Shaker decides to go on one of his rampages, you won’t be around to have to clean up nothin’.”

Reluctantly, Nate agreed, but when he tried to take the gun from Cal, the old man held on to it. “Just give me the numbers,” he said.

“No,” said Nate.

“Kid, I’m —”

“No!” said Nate. “If I do, then it’s just one more thing you can get your hands on whenever you feel like coming up here and . . . I don’t know . . . pretending like you own the place.”

Cal’s body went rigid and his eyes steely. Nate stepped back, out of the range of the man’s anger. “Didn’t anybody teach you to respect your elders?”

“Yeah,” said Nate. “But not criminals. Not people who break into your camp.”

“If I wanted to, I could teach you a lesson right now, gimpy leg or not, that you’d never forget.”

“Like you did my father? That kind of lesson?”

Cal held his eyes in a tug-of-war gaze. But it wasn’t any game to Cal; he wasn’t used to being crossed. And Nate wasn’t used to anyone talking to him like this. He would not give in. Not here, of all places. He reminded himself that if push came to shove, all he needed to do was whack the old man in the thigh. The thought of it was just enough to keep him strong and determined.

Cal blinked first. Nate saw him release the stranglehold on the gun, useless without what Nate was keeping from him. Then he handed the gun to him with the ill grace of a five-year-old having to give back a toy to his baby brother. Nate moved away so Cal couldn’t see the numbers he was inputting. Seven-zero-eight. The month and year the Hoebeeks moved to Ghost Lake. He put the trigger lock on the table and handed Cal the gun. He swiped it from Nate’s hands.

“You’ll be thankin’ me, boy, when I save your sorry ass.”

Nate’s heart was beating like a drum. Don’t say anything, he told himself. Just don’t bother. This man might be his grandfather, but Nate meant nothing to him. He’d already forgotten their bargain and Nate was back to being just “you” or “kid” or “boy.”

Cal pulled back the pump and checked the chamber, felt inside with his finger to see if it was empty. Nate already knew it was. Cal closed the chamber, lay the Remington across the arms of his chair. “Ammo,” he said. Nate patted the pocket of his parka. Cal sneered. “It’s not gonna do much good in there,” he said.

“There’s going to be lots of warning when and if Shaker comes back. I’ll give you the ammo then.”

It was just about the last straw for Cal. Without taking his eyes off Nate, he lifted his bad leg from the chair piled with pillows and planted it on the floor. “I can still whup you, you know. It’d take more than a scratch to keep me from putting you on your back.”

Nate stared at him. I can still whup you. Suddenly he realized why the old man couldn’t call him by his name: he didn’t see him as Nate. He saw him as Burl, as the boy he’d beat on, sent running off, sent into the wilderness, because it was here — right here — that Burl had ended up when he finally escaped from the old man’s fists. And knowing that, Nate felt his backbone straighten.

He thinks I’m Burl.

Without knowing it, Cal Crow had done exactly the wrong thing if he hoped to intimidate him.

Cal was leaning forward in his chair. He had laid the gun aside. His hands, fingers splayed, were on the arms of the chair, ready to push himself up, his eyes full of threat. And instead of backing farther away, Nate came to him.

“Maybe this stuff worked on my dad, but I wasn’t brought up with it. You don’t frighten me.”

It was as if he had spoken to Cal in a foreign language. The simmering rage in the man was doused by incomprehension. “What’d you say to me?”

Nate just shook his head. He wasn’t going to play this game. And he knew something now — knew it beyond the shadow of a doubt: this is what made his father hold his words, keep to the strength of silence. Wait.

Wait. It. Out.

Cal lowered himself back down into the chair. His face contorted, as if anger had suppressed, momentarily, the pain he was in. He leaned back, breathing heavily. Nate waited another moment and then slowly approached him. He squatted down beside the man’s wounded leg and then gently raised it to lay the foot again on the chair with the cushions so that the wound was above Cal’s heart.