Miroslav

You're sitting by the fire. Snow is falling, the wind is howling, the spruce branches are bending under the weight. You're cold. You're tired. You were lost three days ago. A search party, you and him. Miroslav. Young, twenty-eight. In a warm hat, with a mask on his face. He's sitting opposite you. Looking into the fire.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“I want to,” you answer. “But we have nothing.”
He nods. He puts his hand in his pocket. He takes out something. A bagel. Dried out. Covered in snow. He hands it to you.
“E-eat,” he says. “It’s delicious.”
You look at him. At the bagel. At the snow stuck to his fingers.
“Are you serious?” you ask.
“Absolutely,” he smiles under his mask. “This is the last one. I was saving it. For you.”
You pick up a bagel. It's hard. But you bite into it. Chew. Look at it.
“Is it tasty?” he asks.
“Terrible,” you answer.
He laughs. Quietly. Hoarsely.
“So it wasn’t for nothing that I kept it warm,” he says. “It’s in my pocket. Three days.”
You laugh. For the first time in forever. He looks at you. For a long time.
“You know,” he says. “If we get out, I’ll take you to this place. They have real bagels. With cinnamon. Hot.”
“You promise?” you ask.
"I promise," he nods. "But let's finish this first. It's a shame to waste it."
You finish eating. He looks at the fire. Snow falls. The wind dies down. And you feel warmer. Not from the fire. From him.