If it weren't colder than hell, it was just a notch warmer than heaven. The sting of the wind buffeting Greg's face made his eyes water in protest. The saline tears ran back like rain down a window pane, and crashed into his thick, brown hair as he pushed forward. It was four o'clock in the afternoon. The storm clouds rolled in overhead. Greg had no fucking clue where he was.
He rummaged into his sack for some water. He had found a stream that wasn't frozen about three miles back. Whether it was north, south, east, or west, he still had no idea. All he knew was that he wasn't dead yet, and he could make out some smell of civilization in the distance.
It had been a long time since he had seen other people. Not in three months. He had eaten game and berries for nearly six weeks, and he was starting to enjoy squirrel marrow. He whittled in his spare time, and dozed off when he could. Keeping on foot kept him warm, though his chafed skin suggested otherwise. Though hard as he may try, he never seemed to block out the wind enough to keep his face from bleeding and flushing.
But, as he reached the top of a hill, he saw a group of people off in the distance shaking hands and hugging. A farewell of sorts. For the first time in several weeks, Greg smiled, and began to walk with a lope.