A light in the smokehouse.

Smoke from the Bergs' little outbuilding should have meant supper. Instead it meant they had hidden inside while a reindeer battered the latch. A fallen spruce had trapped the animal in their yard.

I lifted the trunk just enough to clear a path. It ran for the hills without looking back. The Bergs fed me soup; I spent the evening repairing the latch so no one would have to trust it again.