The wind was howling down off the mountain, throwing up eddies on the surface of the lake and scattering the moon’s reflection. It pressed against the large glass door of the cabin, seeking but not finding a way in.

The cold could not be kept so easily at bay. I felt it at my back as I lay, propped on one arm, on the rug before the fire. With the heat from the flames on my front, the cool was welcome. Over the crackle of the flames and the whistle of the wind, I could hear another sound.
“It’s starting to rain,” I said.