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The October wind whipped through Mark’s parka like a razor.
He pulled his collar tight, staring at the gray expanse of Lake Baikal.
Beside him, Bart, a massive Golden Retriever, kicked up icy slush with his paws.
“Not so fast, old man,” Mark croaked.
His voice was a ghost of itself, unused since the funeral three years ago.
Bart was his anchor, the only thing keeping him from drifting into the same void that took his wife.
The dog spotted a duck in the reeds and bolted toward the edge of the old weather station pier.
“Bart, stop!” Mark yelled.
A sharp, dry crack echoed across the water like a gunshot.
The golden blur vanished into the leaden depths.
“Bart!” Mark screamed, hitting the ice-slicked wood at a dead run.
The dog surfaced, his eyes wide with a primal terror that shattered Mark’s heart.
Bart clawed at the ice, but the thin crust shattered every time he tried to pull himself up.
“To me! Swim to me!” Mark reached out, but the gap was too wide.
The water was barely 2^\circ\text{C}, a temperature that turns muscles to lead in minutes.
Bart stopped barking, emitting only a thin, high-pitched whimper as he began to sink.
“No… not you. I won’t lose you too!” Mark looked around, but there was no rope, no branch, only frozen rock.
He ripped off his heavy jacket, the freezing air biting his skin instantly.
“Hold on, boy!”
Mark jumped.
The impact felt like thousands of white-hot needles piercing his lungs.
He surfaced, gasping for air, and grabbed Bart by the collar just as the dog’s head slipped under.
“Paddle, damn you! Paddle!”
Mark used his elbows to smash through the ice, carving a path toward the shore.
The ice sliced his forearms, leaving a trail of red in the white slush.
His legs were turning into unbending sticks, his vision blurring as hypothermia set in.
“If I let go, I can make it,” a voice whispered in his head.
Suddenly, he felt a weak, sandpaper lick on his cheek.
Bart was dying, but he was trying to comfort his master.
The gesture hit Mark like an adrenaline shot to the heart.
With a roar of pure defiance, Mark found a crevice in the underwater rocks and heaved.
He threw the seventy-pound dog onto the pebbles and crawled out behind him, his fingernails tearing as he gripped the stones.
Bart lay motionless, water pooling around his matted fur.
“Breathe, Bart! Breathe!” Mark began rhythmic chest compressions, his own body shaking violently.
One minute passed. Two. The world was turning gray.
Suddenly, Bart coughed, spewing lake water and drawing a ragged, beautiful breath.
Mark dragged the dog into the cabin, stoking the wood stove until the iron glowed red.
He wrapped Bart in every blanket he owned, rubbing the dog’s fur until his own hands burned.
An hour later, Bart lifted his head and rested it on Mark’s knees.
Mark buried his face in the damp fur and sobbed, the first real tears in three years.
The lake had tried to take his soul, but he had fought back and won.
“We’re okay,” Mark whispered, his voice finally clear. “We’re going to be okay.”