The cabin was supposed to be a break.

Six of us drove up on a Friday afternoon—two cars, too many bags, and the kind of forced cheer that always came with long weekends in the woods. The place belonged to Maya’s uncle: three bedrooms, a loft, a stone fireplace, and windows that looked out onto dense pine and a frozen lake. By the time we unloaded, the sky had already turned the color of wet concrete. The first flakes started falling while we were still arguing over who got which room.

I ended up with the smallest bedroom at the end of the hall. One window. One bed. A radiator...