Ronnie's legs buckled halfway across the clearing. He hit the frozen ground hard, breath knocked out in a white cloud. The tree line stood fifty yards away, maybe less, but his body wouldn't answer anymore. He tried to push up and his arms shook, then gave out. Cold bit through his coat, through his skin, into his bones. He turned his head. A massive redwood trunk lay ten feet to his left, one end propped against a boulder. The hollow beneath looked dark and still. Ronnie dug his fingers into the dirt and dragged himself forward, inch by inch. His vision blurred. He reached the trunk and pulled himself into the shallow space underneath. The wind cut less here. He grabbed handfuls of dead needles and dry moss, packing them against the open side where air rushed in. His hands moved on their own now, muscle memory from the ranger station, from the cave, from all the failed shelters. He wedged broken branches between the trunk and boulder, then stuffed more needles into the gaps. The wind died to a whisper. Ronnie curled tight against the redwood and felt warmth trap around him. Not much, but enough. His first real shelter in nine months.