Losing the warmth of civilization sobers the adrenaline that rushed me from stasis, and the cold air that replaced it is a lot more uncomfortable than I anticipated. I push through the exhaustion—less out of determination and more out of fear. The terror of exposure is greater, for now, than the pressure of a weakening body.

Part of me wants to go back. I didn’t think this decision through very well; I didn’t head out with a plan; I’m not prepared for survival; I was barely making it in comfort.

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The weight on my back is light. I went out expecting to die. It wasn’t the goal, but I won’t deny that I didn’t care for the risk.

I found shelter here and there, but the longer I travel the more sparse it becomes. I've picked up a few tricks through trial and error to keep safe in the wilderness.

Peeking out through the brush, I see a structure.