“Michael?” Mathew whispered, his voice trembling. He scrambled up the last few feet of the path, his boots slipping on the treacherous ice. He rounded a large, flat boulder that overhung a small hollow. His flashlight beam swept into the darkness of the crevice, and for a moment, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him.
There sat Michael. He had found a small, dry alcove where the snow hadn’t reached. He was huddled in a ball, but he wasn’t crying. In his hands, he held two gray stones, which he was calmly striking together. He looked up at Mathew, his eyes blinking against the light, his face streaked with dirt but remarkably calm.