A step through the snow into a secreted void, twists a knee and ankle, crippling him.
A snow cave protects him from the glacial storm. He calculates his days, following the exhaustion of his foodstuffs.
To avoid a racking starvation, he anticipates suicide.
He feels the lift before he knows the animal’s on him, “God, what a stench!”
A fling over the beast’s shoulder knocks out his wind. The two are off at a good pace.
Bouncing along, all he can see is the gray tipped fur on the brute’s back. All he can hear is labored huffing.
Hope alone remains.