Marcus Wyland crawled out of the surf with a broken sailboat behind him and no way to build a wall. The sun was already dropping. He needed shelter before dark, and he had nothing to cut wood with. The wreck had swallowed his knife, his axe, his whole toolbox. He pressed his numb hands against the sand and made himself think. He walked inland, shivering. Frost crusted the grass. This was supposed to be a warm island. The captain had promised sun and calm water. Now Marcus's breath smoked in the air, and ice crept over everything. He did not understand it, and he had no time to. Cold like this could kill him tonight. He reached a bush with pale leaves and small white berries. He tore off a handful and ate them. They were sour and hard, but they were food. He stuffed his pockets full. Then he snapped a thick branch to use as a club or a digging stick. Something was better than nothing. Past the bush he found a wide lake, frozen solid. Its surface shone pale blue, cracked with white frost. Marcus stepped onto the ice to cross it. Then he stopped. The ice was sharp along one broken edge. A jagged shard stuck up where the surface had split. He knelt and worked the shard free. It came loose in his hand, cold and heavy, one edge like a blade. He tested it against his branch. The ice cut a shallow line in the wood. He pressed harder and it cut deeper. He had a tool now. A blade of ice, but a blade. Movement caught his eye. Near the lake's edge, a pale crab scuttled over the frost. Its spiny shell and long legs blended with the white ground. Marcus crept close and brought the ice shard down. He struck it behind the claws. The crab stopped moving. He had a second meal. He carried the crab and his ice blade back toward the wreck. The light was almost gone. With the shard he could cut branches, notch wood, shape a frame. He could not build a full shelter tonight. But he could start. He cut three saplings and dragged them together. He notched their ends with the ice edge and leaned them into a rough tripod. His hands bled from the cold, and the blade grew slick as it melted in his grip. It was already smaller than before. By morning it would be a puddle. Whatever he built, he would have to build fast, and find a way to make a tool that lasted. For now, he had a frame standing against the dark, and that was more than he had at dawn.