I was in my early 20s when this happened.

I had just finished school and was working a winter job in Boston.

A co-worker offered me and my buddy Leo the use of his family's place up in Maine for a long weekend.

He called it a cabin, which was accurate.

It sat near the waterline on Moosehead Lake, a few

miles outside Greenville. He said the lake froze solid most winters, and that people

drove trucks on it. We figured we'd icefish, drink cheap beer, and get away from traffic

and roommates for a few days. I'd grown up in New

England, but had never been that far north. It sounded simple. Drive up, unlock the door,

light the stove, drill a few holes, and sit over them until something pulled the line.

We hit Greenville by mid-afternoon on a Friday. The town looked like a postcard, but without

the fake charm. Snowbanks stacked along the roads, a gray sky that felt heavy but not threatening.

We stopped at Indian Hill trading posts to grab propane canisters, eggs, bacon, coffee, and

some jigs and bait because we only had the basics.

The woman at the register asked where we were headed.

I told her the road name my co-worker had texted.

She didn't say much, just a small nod, like she recognized it.

An older guy behind us, the type who looks built from the cold, glanced over when he heard

it, and then looked away again. It felt like nothing at the time. The road to the cabin was narrow

and hard-packed, tall trees on either side, a few mailboxes half buried. We found the place by a faded

number nailed to a birch. The drive hadn't been plowed

since the last storm, so we parked at the top and sletted our gear down a few yards. The cabin was rough,

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