The Boy and the Winter Wolf

Snow had been falling for three days, and Milo had begun to think the whole world was made of white. From the window of the little cabin, he could see only soft hills of snow, the dark line of the pine forest, and the grey sky pressing down like a heavy blanket. The village was far away, somewhere beyond the trees, but the storm had buried the road. No one could come up the mountain, and Milo could not go down.

He was twelve years old, and he was alone. His father had gone to the village two days before the storm to sell wood and buy supplies. "I will be back before the snow gets bad," he had promised. But the snow had come early and fast, and now his father was trapped on the other side of the white world. Milo knew he was safe down there, in a warm house with his uncle. Still, the cabin felt very empty without him.

To keep busy, Milo fed the fire, melted snow for water, and counted the food in the cupboard. There was enough bread, dried meat, and beans for a week, maybe more if he was careful. He talked to himself sometimes, just to hear a voice. He read the same three books again and again. At night, the wind howled around the roof like a living thing, and Milo pulled his blanket tight and wished the morning would come faster.