Cut

Snow

Runner showed up three days ago, little clumps of ice stuck to a three centimetre long beard, his eyebrows white with frost beneath a snow-covered hat, his hair shaggy and wet, sticking to his fur collar. Father didn't recognise him at first. Mother hurried his backpack off and ushered him into the bathroom, where he took a hot shower for a wasteful five minutes, sucking our boiler empty. I knew the man needed to eat and sleep, but all I could think was Let's go! Although sharing a tent with him feels awkward, our hikes totally rock.

Now he's walking only three steps ahead of me, yet he's barely visible. The wind blows snow down from the clouds, up from the snowdrifts, horizontally off the firs. Tiny icicles needle my cheeks. My snow goggles are caked with snow, my gaiters are leaking snow into my boots, and my neck has a snow collar.

This winter grew harsh and that's why Runner insists on crossing the mountains to the lowlands. Snow is good there, the more the better because it helps you survive in a contaminated place, he told me. Snow can be thawed and used as drinking water, while lakes, rivers, and groundwater are unfit for human consumption. We are trading the risk of dying of disease with the risk of dying of severe cold. But I'm not complaining. I'm happy out here, and I've never seen the lowlands with my own eyes.

There's just this one problem with my feet. I can't feel them, and although I'm trying really hard not to, I'm about to topple over.

Runner turns around and shouts something I don't understand. The wind is picking up and howls into my face.

'We'll dig a hole over here and get out of the snowstorm,' he says louder, pointing to a bolder with a snowdrift piling up on its side. 'Can you use your hands?'

I yell, 'Yes!' but I have my doubts.

We drop our backpacks, unstrap the snowshoes, and use them to dig a tunnel. The snow is compact — slowing the digging but making sure our bivouac won't collapse. I hope.

Runner is shaping a cave that will barely fit the two of us. The smaller the better — less dead volume to heat and less snow to dig out.

'Fix sleeping bags and pads. I'll cook tea,' he says once he drilled an air hole into the side of the cave, and that's all we speak until each pair of ice-cold hands holds a steaming mug of peppermint tea. We are chewing strips of dried meat, handfuls of nuts, and dried cherries.

'In the morning,' Runner says, 'we'll have to eat a hundred grams of butter each. Otherwise it will be hard to take in all the calories we use up hiking through the deep snow.'

The word "calories" alone makes my mouth water.

'How are your feet?'

'What feet?' I joke, but he doesn't think it's funny.

'Sleeping bag,' he says and points. 'Take your shoes and socks off first. Anything that's wet or full of snow, too.'

I strip down to my woollen long-johns and sweatshirt, moving about carefully so as not to brush snow off the ceiling or walls. He extracts a set of dry clothes from my backpack and stuffs them into my sleeping bag. I wiggle in and get dressed in the confined space while Runner changes his clothes, too.

'Okay, Micka, scoot over.'

'You want to come in here?' Does he even fit?

'Yes. Move.'

Now I am worried. My hunting knife is in the pile of damp clothes and just out of reach. But the chances of him doing anything funny at minus twenty-five degrees Celsius might be low. I unzip the sleeping bag and move aside as far as possible. Runner opens his sleeping bag all the way, throws it over mine, and inches himself into our cocoon, but from the other end.

'Feet under my armpits, Micka. That's the warmest place.'

I burst out laughing when he pulls up his shirt and pullover, but I immediately do what he says. We are both on our backs, his legs sticking up above my ears, while my icy feet find the two warm pockets under his arms. Not that I feel the warmth, but I assume it's there, judging by his wince.

'What about yours?' I ask.

'They are okay.'

Sure. I send my hands up there anyway, slipping my fingers into his socks. Ice-cold. As I thought.

'Feet under my armpits, Runner.'

I don't need to invite him twice. He inches his large feet under my arms and I try not to squeal from the sudden drop in temperature.

'Once you feel a little warmer, you can stuff all your wet clothes into the foot-end of your sleeping bag. They'll dry overnight.'

Right now, I don't feel like moving at all. Runner's icy toes slowly grow lukewarm. My feet are regaining a little feeling, especially my toes, which now hurt as if someone chopped them off. I bite my cheeks and close my eyes.

'Show me your toes, Micka.'

Reluctantly, I pull one foot from the hairy, but wonderfully warm Runner-armpit. He probes and presses, then sticks my foot back into the toasty place.

'Superficial frostbite, nothing to worry about. Have more of the hot tea.'

'Give me a moment,' I hum, limbs aching, eyelids heavy with exhaustion. 'How do you stick your feet under your own armpits?'

'Excuse me?

'I was just wondering what you do when you hike through the snow all by yourself.'

'I would have walked another five hours to the next settlement, stuck my feet into warm water, sipped hot tea with something stronger in it, and sat as close to the fireplace as possible.'

'Is it annoying to have a fifteen-year-old as company?'

'Sometimes.'

I sneak my hand into the snow, grab a piece, and throw it into Runner's face. 'Old people are quite annoying, but what can one do about it?'

'Micka, you really don't give a shit about authority.' A sharp grumble.

'I'm sorry,' I say quietly.

A handful of snow hits me. 'Question everything,' he says without taking his eyes off the bumpy snow bivouac ceiling.

'The next village is only five hours from here?' I'm tired, but wiggle myself towards the teapot and pour a cup. 'Tea?'

He hands me his mug and I hand it back, filled and steaming.

'Five hours for me. With you, depending on how much snow falls tonight, it could be another day, or even two.'

'I had no clue I was such a weakling.' I try to put some acid in my voice, but all I sound is tired.

'Micka, I've been doing this for years. It would be a shame if I hadn't improved my hiking skills in all this time.'

He's right, but it still rubs me the wrong way. I push his large feet from my bony armpits, pull on my socks and boots, and announce that I need to pee.

Once I'm back inside and our backpacks secure the entrance, I stuff a handful of nuts into my mouth, slip into my now-empty sleeping bag, and drift off within minutes.

I don't know for how long I've slept, but my clattering teeth wake me. It's no use to try to compact myself into a ball. I'm freezing cold.

Rustling tells me that my noise woke up Runner. I hear a zipper being unzipped and feel an arm and a layer of his sleeping bag being draped over me. He scoots as close as he can and I'm left to confusing thoughts about me hating hugs and all. But I'm so cold that it might be time for a compromise. I unzip my sleeping bag, nudge the one half of my cover underneath his, press my back against his stomach, and doze off quite comfortably.