Per 
The deer stares at me again. Through the window of the cabin, past the boreal pines, it stands. Alone on the ice, like a stalagmite born from the depths of the cold, its rigidity remains, as if it is the sole cause of the perpetual winter haunting this patch of the forest. Yet I, and the other hunters knew it was just the bait; where it was the lure of the angler and we were the wretched fish, destined to arrive at its gaping jaws. Again, I lie on the wooden floor with the fire spitting its warm treasures into my ear, and the deer whispering its frozen lies into the other. The cabin’s wood had been sourced from the surrounding pine trees. The same trees that never waned, everlasting in the blizzard that cannot surpass their fortitude. Fear rages outside the glass panes. I position my head closer to the fire to smother the deer’s promised secrets, but it doesn’t move. The lake’s call is too loud to ignore.
The fire dies, and with it fades the bubble of calm held hostage by the cabin’s walls.
“Knock, knock-knock,” the door speaks aloud with an irregular rhythm.
What would you expect from someone without knuckles? I continue to lie by the fire. The deer opens the door. The forest beckons. Taking the fire with me, I step out into the pines.
