It was a rough winter, with cutting north winds and long stretches of bitter cold. The broad river, which had only recently rolled dark and fast, froze over under a thick sheet of hard, clear ice.
When the worst of the cold set in, Frank found himself thinking about ice fishing, something he hadn’t done in years. He dug his old gear out of storage, bundled up in a heavy coat and insulated boots, and got ready for a long morning out.
Fog saw him gearing up and, as usual, got excited and followed him outside. The morning was bright and crystal clear. The cold air stung the cheeks, and the fresh snow squeaked underfoot.
Nothing about that beautiful winter morning hinted at the danger waiting ahead. Looking for a good spot, they made their way well out from shore across the frozen river.
The ice looked solid enough—smooth, thick, and unbroken. Other fishermen had clearly been out there before; old frozen-over holes dotted the snow.
Frank walked on, scanning for the right place to drill. But the moment he took one more heavy step toward a faint dark patch in the snow, a sharp crack split the air.
The sound echoed across the open white river like a gunshot. Everything that followed happened so fast there was hardly time to think.
The ice beneath him, thinned from below by current, gave way. Frank dropped straight into the black water. The cold hit him so hard it stole his breath.
