At dawn, I heard three knocks. Because of the previous evening’s strange event, a total of six knocks and no visitor waiting to be left inside, I snagged a five-foot-high birch walking stick with an iron nail fixed to its bottom so one could walk in snow and ice. The stick sat next to the door, perhaps something Howard Steinmann used frequently in his younger days.
Frankly, I looked silly in nothing more than a pair of tight boxer briefs. Because an untamable cold had swept throughout the cabin, my n*****s were hard, and I had goose pimples running up and down my legs. No matter what, through hell or high water, I was not going to be bullied by a nauseating trespasser or Pihu. Someone needed to be threatened and put in his or her place.
I intended to unlock the door, swing it open, and b
