The local Sheriff, a man who had seen too many mountain winters, spread a map out on the workbench. “We have three hours of true darkness before the temperature hits the danger zone,” he warned. Mathew gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. Angela sat nearby, her face pale, clutching Mike’s favorite stuffed bear.
The group was divided into teams. Their neighbor, Mr. Henderson, a veteran tracker, led the first group toward the creek. Mathew insisted on leading the second group, pushing toward the higher ridges. He couldn’t sit still; he felt that if he stopped moving, the cold would settle into his own bones just as it was likely settling into Michael’s.