I LEAVE WITH Bo before dawn, my bow and the rifle both strapped over my shoulder. There’s no choice any more, not with daylight so precious, but I’ve gotten used to the dark. I keep a lantern on my belt; I know how to navigate by the thin light of the stars, reflected off the ever-present blanket of snow.

I make little sound as I walk, stepping in yesterday’s footprints. My feet are warm, wrapped in rabbit fur sewn to the trimmed-down soles from dad’s boots, with the ice cleats lashed to them for better grip. The cleats are vital once I step out onto the lake.

I’m cautious every day, even though it’s been weeks since the ice froze enough to hold my weight. My fishing hole is at least a foot deep by now, and every day I have to break through the ice that’s formed overnight. But I’ve seen a crack appear after a windstorm, black water lazy and hungry beneath it.

Things can change in an instant. If you aren’t ready, they won’t give you the courtesy of a second chance. I’m out of those.

I stand on the lake and shut my eyes as the light comes up over the eastern trees. The forest is never silent. Not even in winter. Sound carries across the ice. It has a thin echo to it; it will try to trick you. These are the lessons I’ve learned in the last few weeks, as the days have gotten colder and snows have fallen.

This morning I’m not listening for anything in particular, just listening. I like to do that as often as possible. It makes me feel like I’m keeping track of my little kingdom.

I know where branches fall from the weight of snow. I know that there’s another fox around here somewhere, even though I haven’t seen him. And I know that a moose crashed through the woods near the cabin last week. Luckily, he never came close enough to bother me.

I try to keep track of the days, but sometimes I forget. I don’t know how long the winter will last. I think I am through the worst of it, though. The ice storms that made everything freeze into one solid sheet and kept us trapped inside the cabin for a week were the worst of it. Worse even than the days so brief they were barely a gray spot on the horizon. Worse than the windstorms, when I lay awake waiting for a tree to come crashing down on top of us.

But we haven’t died. Not yet.

A delicate sound reaches my ears. Something moving through the trees. Big but nimble.

Bo’s ears prick beside me. My heart thuds. A deer. I’ve seen them, of course. Does and bucks. Big and winter-lean, but even snow-starved they’ll have meat on them—more meat than I can comprehend, living on fat little birds and stringy rabbits and an endless succession of fish hauled up from the ice-capped lake.

The field guide has become my bedtime story. I read the sections on skinning and dressing deer over and over, imagining having that much meat at once. I could store it now, pack it in ice; I could even smoke it.

A deer would feed us for a long time.

I move toward the sound. The snow on the ice makes it easier to find purchase, but I still take every step with care, remembering that crack. Winter is long, but not forever. Ice melts. And gaps in the ice can be hidden by snow, and by a film of ice that seems solid up until you trust it with your weight.

The wind blasts my face, thin and sharp. Good. It’s carrying my scent away from whatever is in the woods.

The movement reaches the edge of the trees and I stop. My father’s coat is gray. The snow has been falling all morning. My arms and legs are wrapped with pelts for warmth, rabbit and ermine; they are as pale as the ice. If I don’t move, I might be missed.

The deer emerges. A doe. She’s moving away from me, along the shore. She slows, picking her way over a gnarled, snow-shrouded log. I lift the bow.

Bo tenses against the ground, ready to run, but he holds for my command. I try to move like a tree would move, buffeted by the wind. Nothing to be concerned about.

The doe pauses, ears twitching and gaze rotating around her surroundings.

Please, I mouth. I loose.

The arrow strikes her side. She runs.

I follow. I jog, settling into a gait my leg can manage. The deer is out of sight, crashing through the trees, but the blood on the snow draws me a clear path to her, and Bo courses after her ahead of me.

The snow is dimpled where the deer collapsed on one knee. She thrashed her way back to her feet, scattering pink-tinged snow; her tracks continue forward.

Bo’s crashing converges with the deer and he barks, a sound that shudders through the trees. He’ll flush her back this way, wearing her out without letting her get too far away.

She doesn’t charge straight back, but I abandon the blood trail to intercept her as she turns to run parallel to the lake. The crashing slows. Bo starts up an endless snarling, barking tirade that I know means the deer has stopped. I pick up my pace.

I find Bo and the deer in a little clearing. The deer has collapsed forward and is trying to rise. Blood bubbles from her nostrils in a pink froth. Her eyes roll back in her head, but the arrow has obviously pierced something vital. A lung, I think, looking at the froth on her muzzle.

“Shh,” I say. I walk up with one hand out as if to calm her. She jerks, trying and failing to rise, and this time she falls to her side. Her legs thrash.

I walk behind her. She’s weakening, but a hard kick from her would still hurt.

I draw another arrow. I don’t want to get close enough to use my knife on her. I’ve killed rabbits and stoats in the snares that way, my hands protected by thick leather gloves, but if I stoop to slit her throat, I’m worried she’ll find a last burst of energy and hurt me.

I steady my shot, breathe out, and end it.

The arrow goes in at the back of her head. She stills at once, limbs settling into a final, disjointed pose.

My breath fogs. I stare, not quite believing I’ve done it. She’s small. Smaller than a buck, certainly. But I can get pounds and pounds of meat from her.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you, thank you.”

I sink down into the snow at her side, my hand on her ribs.

I’m not hungry the way I used to be. But there are bad-luck days and bad-luck weeks, and there are days I only have a bite or two, leaving my stomach growling and cramping.

I’m grateful for those days. They keep me smart.

Today, though, will keep me alive.

I’ve memorized every word and drawing in the field-dressing guide, but the process is harder and bloodier and more disgusting than I imagined. I can leave the skinning for later, when we’re back at the cabin, but if I don’t get the guts out quickly, the meat will spoil.

I’ve cleaned and gutted more small animals than I can count, but the deer is different. Her organs fill my hands and there’s just . . . more of her than there is on a rabbit. It’s hard, bloody work, and I don’t think to strip my arms before I start. Soon my stoat-fur armbands are soaked with gore, my hands pure red. Bo sits hungrily by. I throw him scraps of organ meat as I work.

The day warms. Soon I’ve stripped off my coat, but still I work.

By the time I’m done, I’m exhausted. I clean my hands and arms with snow, getting as much blood off the armbands as I can, and drink water I’ve stored under my coat, where it won’t freeze. I eat a few strips of smoked rabbit meat and consider my next step.

I don’t have the litter with me, and I can’t leave the carcass long enough to get it. That wolf-dog’s still around, stealing food from my snares, trying to get into the shed at night.

So I’ll have to drag it. No way around it.

I shrug into my coat, leaving it flapping open.

Bo whines. I stand. Time to move. As always, time to move.

I drag the deer by its feet at first, leaving its organs in a bloody, steaming puddle on the snow. It’s harder work than the dressing, but different. At least now I can stand and move my legs. They’re cramped from sitting and kneeling so long.

Soon my back aches with the weight. I head straight for the ice. The ice is flat and smooth; I won’t have to worry about the deer snagging on anything. Once I’m back on the shore by the canoe, I’ll have other supplies. A tarp, at least, to roll the carcass onto and drag.

I’m halfway across the ice when I realize we have company.

The wolf-dog. We’ve been leaving a wide red trail, and he’s following behind. His coat is black with gray flecks, just like Bo, his eyes a watery yellow. Bo scents him and growls. I keep dragging and whistle for Bo to keep close.

I haven’t given the wolf-dog a name because I’m pretty sure I’ll have to kill him sooner or later. He’s worse than the fox. The fox was afraid of me. The wolf-dog is afraid of Bo—maybe. He’s definitely not worried about me.

I pause halfway across the lake, adjusting my grip. The wolf-dog draws closer. He pants, his breath fogging the air.

I glance at the rifle over my shoulder, next to the bow. I always have it with me. I haven’t fired it yet. Every bullet spent is one less for Raph.

I could shoot the wolf-dog now. But I don’t want to waste the bullet.

I shift to move again. The ice lurches under me. I register the crack only as I stumble.

Cold water gushes around my ankles. I yelp, hauling at the deer, and throw myself toward the still-solid stretch behind me. My foot hits solid ice—and my leg buckles like a hinge, the strength going out of it all at once.

I pitch forward, barely keeping my hold on the deer. My bad knee hits the ice with a crack, sending fresh pain shooting all the way up to my hip. The section of ice behind me is swamped with water. Not tilting, not sinking, but covered ankle-deep in frigid lake water.

Bo barks frantically. The wolf-dog charges.

He’s across the ice in a flash. I pull and pull at the deer, but it’s waterlogged and caught on the edge of the ice.

Bo lunges to meet the wolf-dog. It dodges past him, goes for the deer. For me. I’m on my butt hauling at the carcass. If I let go, I’m terrified the ice will give and the whole carcass will sink to the bottom of the lake. I can’t let go.

I bring my good foot up. I slam it into the wolf-dog’s face. His teeth close around my boot, but it doesn’t hurt—with so many layers of leather and fur, I hardly feel the pressure. I hammer my other foot against his muzzle, but my leg is so weak it just slides across it.

Bo snaps at his flanks. The wolf-dog lets go and whirls on Bo. They’re nearly the same size, both ferocious, but the wolf-dog is more desperate.

I haul uselessly at the deer. The wolf-dog gets a hold of Bo’s shoulder, and Bo lets out an awful scream.

I give one last giant haul on the deer, pulling it farther onto the solid ice, and let go. I grab at the gun. It’s slippery in my wet grip. The strap tangles around me. I bring it to my shoulder.

The wolf-dog lunges for me again. He’s past the rifle barrel. His teeth rend the air in front of my face, and I fling myself backward away from him. He’s on me again in an instant, Bo just behind him, all of us a tangle of bodies on the ice.

He goes for my throat. I jam my arm between us, and his teeth snap shut over it. Pain lances through my arm. I scream.

He’s too close to get the barrel of the rifle between us. I grab for something, anything, and my fingers close around an arrow. I wrench it out and up as Bo’s jaws close around the back of the wolf-dog’s neck.

His teeth rip free of my arm. I thrust with the arrow.

I’ve never killed anything this close that wasn’t halfway to dead already. The arrow goes in. It only punches through his skin. Blood gushes from the wound, but I haven’t hit anything vital.

The dogs are off me suddenly, and the wolf-dog falls back. He crouches on the ice, bloodied, the snow growing red around him. He snarls and snaps but doesn’t approach.

Rumbling, Bo circles to the side.

“Bo,” I say, warning. He’s bloodied, too. Favoring one leg. Bo might win, but there’s no vet out here to help him after.

I grab for the gun, but the wolf-dog is backing away. Then running, limping, his pelt matted with blood.

Bo charges after him. “Bo!” He stops. Half-charges again. Halts.

Sobbing, I roll onto my side and then up to my knees. I can only kneel there, my arm throbbing. My legs are soaked. I need to move. Need to get warm.

I stand. The ice is crossed and crisscrossed with blood. Snow falls around us; in a few hours, you won’t be able to tell that any of this happened.

If I don’t move, the winter will swallow me, too.

“Come on, Bo.”