The plywood patch Nash installed over the kitchen window, the one above the sink, has been smashed inward. A wolf is halfway through the opening, snarling, its paws scrambling on the stainless-steel counter.
It's not the Beta—it's a younger male, scrawny, desperate enough to try the gap.
He's all ribs and teeth, head inside the room, eyes glowing in the faint light from the other room.
"Get back!" Nash roars.
He racks the shotgun slide.Clack-clack.
The sound is universal. The wolf flinches, trying to scramble back out, but his hind legs are caught on the sill.
Nash doesn't hesitate. He can't. If that wolf gets in, the pack follows.
BOOM.
The shotgun blast in the enclosed space is deafening. It blows the window frame apart. The wolf is thrown backward out into the snow.
Nash pumps the shotgun again. He steps up to the broken window, aiming into the dark yard.
"Anyone else?" he screams into the night. "Come on! Who's next?"
Silence.
Then, the sound of retreating paws. Fast. Running toward the woods.
Nash sags against the counter, breathing hard. The cold air is pouring in through the shattered window, freezing the sweat on my face.
"They breached," he says. "Through the plywood."
"We need to board it up," I say. "Better this time. Use the table leaf. It's oak."
We work frantically in the dark, using screws and the heavy oak leaf from the dining table to seal the window. My hands are shaking so hard I drop the screwdriver twice.
When it's done, we retreat to the living room. We pull the couch in front of the hallway entrance, creating a smaller perimeter.
We sit on the floor, huddled together in the dark.
"They're gone for now," Nash says. "The shotgun scared them. But they'll be back."
"We can't stay here, Nash," I say quietly. "We have no lights. The window is compromised. You're injured. If they come back tomorrow night …"
"We can't leave," Nash argues. "The snowmobile is exposed. We'd be sitting ducks on the river."
"Then we hold the walls and wait," I say. "Finn knows where we live. You go quiet out here, somebody comes looking. You told me that."
"After two weeks in the bush and one night home?" Nash shakes his head in the firelight. "Finn thinks we've gone to ground on purpose. May's probably running a pool on when we resurface. Silence won't smell wrong to anybody for three, four days. My leg doesn't have three days. Neither does that window."
"We don't leave on the snowmobile," I say. "We leave on the offensive."
Nash looks at me in the firelight. "What?"
"You said it yourself," I say. "Reid is the chaos. Rhys is the logistics. You need both."
"I can't reach anybody. The radio's scattered, the landline's dead, and the sat unit hasn't found a satellite since sundown."
"No," I say. "But we can go to where the signal is."
"The relay ridge," Nash says slowly. "Five miles east. Finn and I bolted a repeater up there years ago so the lodge could reach town. And the seaward face drops straight down to the strait."
