"I know things." He still doesn't turn around. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a truck. Then fell down a mountain. Then nearly died." I pause. "But warm. Definitely warm."
"Good." He picks up a kettle from near the fire and pours water into a tin cup. "Your core temperature was dangerously low. Another twenty minutes and—" He cuts himself off. "You were stupid to be out in that storm."
"I know."
"You were even more stupid to take the Ridgeline Trail instead of going straight back to town."
"I know."
"And you were catastrophically stupid to keep going when the weather turned."
"I know!" The words come out sharper than I intend. "I know I fucked up, okay? I know I almost died. I know you had to risk your life to come get me, and I know you had to undress me, and I know this is all my fault and you probably wish you'd just left me to freeze, so if you could stop listing all the ways I'm an idiot, that would be great!"
The silence that follows is heavy. He turns around then, and his expression isn't what I expected. Not angry, not disgusted.
"I don't wish I'd left you," he says. He crosses to the bed and holds out the cup. "Drink this. You need to rehydrate."
I take it with shaking hands. The water is warm, almost hot, and it tastes like heaven going down my raw throat.
"Thank you," I whisper. "For saving me. For all of it."
He nods once, then turns away again, moving to the small kitchen area. He pulls out bread, cheese, and dried meat. "You need to eat. Your body is recovering."
I watch him move around the cabin, this space that's so clearly his. Everything is precise, organized, minimal. Nothing wasted, nothing unnecessary. A life pared down to just what's needed to survive.
"How did you find me?" I ask.
His shoulders tense. "Tracked you."
"In that storm? I couldn't see five feet in front of me."
"I know these mountains better than you."
It's not really an answer, but I let it go. There are more important things I need to know.
"I remember—" I start, then stop. How do I phrase this without sounding insane? "When you carried me. It felt like... like you were bigger. Stronger than… I mean, you're already huge, but it felt different. I thought I felt—"
"You were hypothermic," he interrupts, his back still to me. "Delirious. Your brain was shutting down. Whatever you think you remember isn't reliable."
"I felt fur," I say quietly.
He goes completely still.
"I know that sounds crazy," I continue. "I know I was out of it. But I remember feeling warm and safe and there was fur against my cheek, and arms that were too big, too strong, and—"
"You were hallucinating." His voice is flat, final. "That happens with severe hypothermia. The brain misfires, creates sensory input that isn't there. There was no fur. There was just me, carrying you back here before you died."
He's lying. I can hear it in his voice, in the tension radiating from his body.
But I also don't know what the truth would be. That he somehow turned into... what? A bear? That's insane. People don't turn into animals. That's fairy tales and fantasy novels, not reality.
So, I was hallucinating. I must have been.
Even if it felt so real.
"Okay," I say, because what else can I say? "I believe you."
