Routine

Five days after the injured deer, I make a clean kill. A hind, older, no strange wounds. Just a good shot and a quick death. The kind of hunt that doesn't leave you looking over your shoulder the whole way back.

The sled slides easier this time. The deer's already gone cold by the time I reach the cabin, frozen solid in the killing temperatures. I've stopped noticing the cold the same way. It's just there. Background noise. Like the wind or the white sky.

At the entrance, I drop the sled and start stripping off layers.

I shuck the pack, straps groaning as twenty kilos hit the floorboards with a dull thud. My hands are useless. I have to use my teeth to tug the left glove off, taste of salt and frozen leather on my tongue. Then the first sharp stings of blood returning to my fingers make me hiss through my teeth.

The rifle next. Detach, unload, chamber check, lean it against the wall. The bolt's on the wrong side for my left hand but I've gotten used to working around it.

Jacket. Boots. Those bloody frozen laces again, fumbling at them with fingers that won't cooperate. The relief when they finally come off is immediate. I peel off the outer trousers and stand there in the entrance, blood rushing back into my legs, the air inside somehow feeling warm even though it can't be more than a few degrees above freezing.

Still half-frozen and clumsy, I bump into the gear pile. Something clatters to the floor. The piano music from inside stops mid-note.

"Hey thick head!" Zoe's voice carries through the door. "Could you make anymore noise? I could hear all of that from half a mile away!"

I grin despite myself. "Aye, sorry. Just trying to wake the dead."

"Well you're doing a fine job of it."

The music starts up again. Something classical, I think. I don't know the name. Zoe plays from memory mostly, the same pieces over and over. It's comforting. Normal. Like we're not living in a frozen hellscape where someone tortures deer for fun.

Don't think about that now. Clean kill today. Good meat. That's what matters.

But the thought's already there. Five days, no more signs. No tracks, no fires, no blood in the snow.

Doesn't mean they're gone.

I shake my head, pushing the thought away. Paranoia doesn't help. We've been careful, kept watch, stayed alert. That's all we can do.

I haul the deer inside, dragging it through to the storage area. The cabin's cold enough that we don't need to worry about the meat going off. One of the few advantages of living in a freezer.

When I come back through to the main room, Zoe's still at the piano. She glances up, fingers never stopping.

"Good hunt?"

"Aye. Clean kill. No trouble."

She nods, satisfied, and goes back to the music. I stand there for a moment, just watching. The firelight catches her face, and for a second it could be any winter evening. Any normal winter.

Then I think about the deer with the cuts. The blood on the snow. The feeling of being watched.

We should leave. Find somewhere safer. But where?

"You alright?" Zoe's stopped playing. That look on her face.

"Yeah. Fine. Just tired."

She doesn't call me on the lie. Just nods and starts playing again.

I settle into the chair by the fire, letting the warmth seep into my bones. The music fills the cabin, familiar and steady. For now, this is enough. This moment, this warmth, this routine.

Tomorrow I'll go out again. Tomorrow I'll watch the trees and check for tracks and wonder if someone's watching back.

The music drifts through the wall. I let it carry me for a while.