His woodpile was dwindling faster than he could afford, but Thomas Arnison was dying before his eyes, and if he let him die, he would have to live with that pain for the rest of his life.
The night dragged on. Outside, the storm raged, and the temperature dropped further. Inside, Ingred sat next to Thomas, watching his breathing, checking his hands and feet for the color that would indicate the return of blood, or the blackening that would mean its absence.
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Around midnight, his vision cleared. He looked at Ingrid, then at the walls around him, the wool-covered walls that maintained a 22-degree temperature difference against the
the deadly cold outside.
“Your cabin,” he said. His voice was weak but clear. “It’s warm. Thanks to the wool.”
Thomas stared at her. Then he laughed, a faint, broken sound that turned into a cough.
“The wool,” he repeated. “You were right.”
“You walked six miles in 40 degrees below zero.”
“46. Maybe even colder.”
He closed his eyes. “My sheep are dead. All of them. The roof of the barn collapsed under the snow. I couldn’t… I tried to dig them out, but…”
Ingred didn’t force him to continue.
“Your hands,” she said. “Your feet. Can you feel them?”
Thomas moved his fingers slowly. They were still pale, but no longer the dead white they had been before. The pink was returning to his skin.
“Pain,” he said. “Burning.”
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