I need advice and I need it fast, but first, first, let me, let me explain what happened today.

My name's Noah. I just survived something I can't explain. I'm sitting in my truck right now, heater blasting hands still shaking as I type this out of my phone.

I should be calling someone. I mean, the police may be, but who's going to believe what I'm about to tell you?

It started as a simple weekend trip to decompress after a brutal week at work. I've been ice fishing

since I was a kid, and there's something meditative about sitting in a tent or frozen lake waiting for a bite. No phone service,

no emails, just you and the ice. I drove out to Drifting Lake around 7 a.m. It's a pain in the

ass to even find. I only knew about it because my friend's dad

told me about it a while ago, and even then, I had to search for it on satellite maps.

Access point requires a solid 30-minute drive down a maintenance road that's barely maintained

at all. Today, it was worse the usual, patches of ice making the

whole drive feel like playing Russian roulette with my truck's alignment. I saw the tire tracks

from other vehicles, so at least I knew I wasn't completely crazy for attempting it. But every time

my wheels slipped, I question my life choices. But that's exactly why I like drifting lake.

A terrible access keeps most people away, except today. There were more people than I expected. I counted maybe 15 other

fishermen spread across the lake. Their pop-up tents dotting the ice like colorful mushrooms,

a couple of guys near the shore were unloading their

gear from a sled, and one of them gave me a friendly wave as I passed. Any better luck out here

before? I called over. First time a drifting lake, he shouted back. Buddy says it's worth the drive,

though. Usually is. I replied, giving him a thumbs up. Further out, I passed an older guy who was already set up, sitting on his bucket outside

his tent, a thermos of coffee.

He nodded at me as I walked by.

Hello drive to get here, I said.

...