The entire camp, he said, is blocked with snow.

We were a half-hour digging at the door with our hands. The shovel was behind the door. We were going to have to paw away at the snow and get the door open, and then find a way around the door to the shovel, and then spend an hour or two just clearing out the camp. The snow was hard packed. That was when I heard a little wail out of Gerard. His knees buckled, and he was crying.

Wait, I said to Gerard. And I put a shell in my gun.

I went a little crazy, shooting into the snowbank inside the camp. The snow broke into chunks, and Gerard tumbled them out. I knew I was doing something insane. The pellets probably drove into the snow a few feet, that’s it, but I shared in the vengeance we were having on winter — we fired and then pulled out large boulders of snow. It felt like we had cornered an animal and were killing it bit by bit.

The door was wide open now. My hand was hot from the stock of the barrel. But as I broke my gun to slip in another round, I heard in the wind the low chug of a small generator. Off to the east, at the Reids’ camp, the windows flared up from a dull orange to a bright white. My God, I thought, the Reids are here. And their door flung open. Who’s shooting the Winters? It was Mr. Reid.

It’s me, I said. Old Man Winter’s son.

As I said it, it registered in me that he had asked the question almost in a jocular fashion, as if he’d like to join in the fun of destroying something. But Mr. Reid was only trying to understand what could prompt two young men to start firing into a house firmly packed with snow.

I turned to Gerard but couldn’t see him in the dark. Then I heard the sush of his parka and frozen jeans, a muffled wail from the tunnel of his hood. Gerard was making a run for Mr. Reid — abandoning me — toward what must have seemed a more humane welcome.