Scott Lang stood no taller than a pine needle, and he wanted a crown. Not any crown. The ice-queen ant ruled a frozen hive beneath the snow, and Scott meant to shrink down, slip inside, and take her throne for himself. He had marked the trail that morning, a thin seam of tracks leading toward her tunnels. Then the sky changed. The blizzard hit like a collapsing roof. Snow fell in clumps the size of boulders at his scale. Each one struck the ground and buried another stretch of his trail. Within minutes the seam he had followed was gone. Scott turned in a slow circle. White walls rose on every side. He had lost the path before the hunt even began. Wind drove crystals into his face. The cold bit through his suit. Beside him, the small fire ant he had raised since it was a grub pressed close against his leg. Its shell glowed a deep ember red, warm as a coal. The ant flicked its antennae toward a dark shape ahead, then tugged at Scott's boot. Scott squinted through the storm. A post rose from the drifts. At its top sat a metal box, half swallowed by snow. Only its rounded lid and front slot showed. A mailbox. Its slot hung open just wide enough for an ant-sized man to climb through. "Good eye," Scott told the ant. He ran. The snow had packed hard against the post. A frozen crust sealed the slot from inside. Scott shoved it with both hands. It held. He kicked it. Nothing. The storm was burying the box fast, and the opening shrank by the second. He pulled the hand warmer from his pack. It was no bigger than a car to him now, a smooth case ringed in bright color. He cracked it, and heat bloomed from the vents. He wedged it against the ice crust and held on. The fire ant climbed up beside him and pressed its glowing shell to the same spot. The ice sweated. Then it cracked. Water ran down the metal and the crust broke free in a sheet. Scott dove through the slot and dragged the warmer in after him. The ant scrambled through last, just as a slab of snow sealed the opening behind it. Inside, the box was dark and dry. Wind howled against the metal but could not reach them. Scott set the warmer between himself and the ant and breathed. He had shelter. He had survived. But when he pressed his eye to the sealed slot, he saw only white. The storm had erased every track. The trail to the ice-queen's hive was gone, and he had no idea which way to dig. He had traded one trap for another.