Descripción
The water is black. Not dark blue, not murky gray—black. The kind of black that erases the boundary between water and void. Kyle Schneider's headlamp cuts through it in a narrow cone that dies about three feet ahead of him, and in that dying light, he can see his breath bubbling upward in silver streams, rising toward the ice ceiling above his head. He's been treading water for six minutes now. Maybe seven. His snowmobile is somewhere below him in two hundred feet of lake water, and the hole he fell through has already started to freeze over.
The shelf of ice extends in every direction. He can see it pressing down from above, a white ceiling with a textured underside like frozen waves. There's no hole anymore. The current has pushed him thirty, maybe forty feet from where he broke through, and now he's trapped in a pocket of air that's maybe eight inches tall between the water's surface and the ice. His face is tilted back, nose and mouth pressed against the frozen ceiling, trying to breathe in this impossibly thin space.