Wilson kept glancing about the clearing. Every rustling of the leaves, every whistling of the wind, every crackle of the campfire made him look up. It all felt so muted, so quiet here. The fog above his head seemed to swirl with fervor and stay perfectly still at the same time. He sighed, his inhale becoming a yawn. It had been half an hour, and he'd seen no sign of Willow. In fact, he'd changed twice while waiting, and he didn't realize it had instead been two hours.

Wolfgang had complained about the cold to a passing bluebird, but WX had said nothing. He had sat completely still, looking ahead at nothing, achieving the kind of patience only a robot can. Then Wilson had come back, returning with his twitching and his fear. The fire blazed well, keeping Wilson warm beneath his blanket.

The only positive of all this cold, Wilson thought, is that the dead beast no longer smells quite so poignant. As he was thinking this, he heard a scream echo through the forest. A long, strangled call. It caused Wilson to jump in surprise, falling on his side beneath his blanket burrito. He pushed his legs out and winced at the sudden cold. He pushed through it, standing himself up.

The scream, he knew it was Willow. Few other creatures screamed like that. Wilson bundled himself up and began to walk. He wanted to run, but he knew his body would never be able to do it. He began to hobble as fast as he could, almost tripping many times. He felt the pine trees smack his face and the frozen air claw at his lungs, but still, he walked.

After he'd been walking for twenty minutes, Wilson worried he'd gone the wrong way. There had been no more noise, no more screams. Wilson hated the silence. It was as if the world was withholding what he needed to know. His skin burned with cold, but he was still sweating. His heart pounded, thrumming a war drum behind his eyes, urging him to go faster. Urging him to-

Willow.

He found her slumped on the ground, naked but for the ashes. Her pouch had fallen beneath her, the rocks propping her back at an awkward angle. Her pale skin had gone grey, and her lips were blue. Wilson let out a yelp and rushed to her side. He began to open the blanket, and the sudden shock made him freeze in place. He took deep breaths, moving his stiffening arms until they brought Willow into the massive blanket. He hugged her close, freezing tears rolling down his cheeks. The pain and the emotion and the cold all welled up in Wilson Percival until he screamed. A curse to the sky, to the circumstances. He held Willow close and felt her heartbeat. It was faint, weakened, but there. Wilson's tears continued to flow. Ugly, ugly tears of joy and anger.

With great difficulty, Wilson pushed himself back onto his feet, Willow in his arms. She was so light. It was as if she'd never eaten a good meal in her life. Despite this, Wilson struggled to hold her. His shaking hands, his destroyed ribs, his burns, all screamed that it couldn't be done. Wilson tried to ignore them, but they weren't wrong. The trip that took twenty minutes before took an hour with this new weight. The winds seemed to buffet Wilson about the path, knocking him down again and again. Willow's pickaxe kept poking into his side and jostling about. Sometimes, the wind would blow so hard that it would throw up the blanket and blast against the two of them. Each time, Wilson couldn't contain his screams of pain.

Finally, they made it to the camp. Wilson's face was a mess of frozen tears and snot, but he had brought Willow home. He sunk to his knees in front of the dwindling flames, his icy fingers fumbling at the reserve wood. One log. Another. He shoved stick after stick onto the coals, but it wasn't hot enough to catch. He turned, tearing Willow's satchel away and rummaging around inside. Finally, he found what he was after. The Flint pieces she always used. They were slick, slick with blood. Wilson faltered when he saw the red, even through his frozen eyes. Her spear was in the bag, still intact. What had she used the Flint on?

There was no way Wilson could start a fire with these. He stowed them back in the pack, and instead reached for the pick and one of the rocks she'd taken from the boulder. Wilson slammed the pick into the ground, embedding one of its sharp edges into the soft dirt with a thunk. Then, clasping it in both hands, Wilson slammed the rock against the pick head. A noise rippled through the grove, and Wilson saw sparks leap from the pick. They didn't hit the wood, falling upon the cold grass instead.

He tried again. He grunted in rage and pain, his injuries now starting to catch up. The fire refused to catch. Wilson turned, staring down at Willow, her breathing faint beneath the beefalo blanket.

Wilson swiveled back to the coals, raising the rock as high above his head as his back would allow, and slammed it down hard. Sparks leaped from the pick in all directions, and a few of them hit the wood. Flames burst into the cold air, throwing out a wave of warm air against Wilson's skin. Wilson slumped backward, the rock falling from his hand. He sat there for a while, his breathing ragged and his breaths steaming in the air. The flames flickered before him, reminding him that there was one more step.

With a deep breath, Wilson pushed himself onto his knees. With his blistered hands, he grabbed Willow, pulling her up until he was hugging her unconscious body. The body of his only friend in this wretched place.

"Stay with me."

He turned, using gravity to help him toss Willow's body onto the blaze. With a fwump, she connected with the wood. Wilson slumped down again, trying to keep Willow in his sight as she lay sprawled on the campfire. His eyes fluttered, and he tried to keep them open...