Jack sat huddled in his crude shelter, the cold creeping into his bones despite the layers of animal hide he had wrapped around himself. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and darkness swallowed the frozen landscape outside. The temperature plummeted, and he knew he wouldn't last the night without fire.
He had tried before—rubbing sticks together, striking stones against each other—but nothing had worked. Frustration gnawed at him. Fire meant warmth, protection, and the ability to cook his food properly. Without it, he was vulnerable to both the cold and the predators lurking in the darkness.
Determined, he gathered dry grass, twigs, and a few larger branches. He had seen people start fires in survival documentaries, using friction, sparks, and patience. He had patience. He had to.
Jack grabbed two sticks and began rubbing them together, his hands stiff from the cold. Minutes passed. Nothing. He adjusted his grip, working faster. Still, no sign of heat. His muscles burned, his breath fogged the air in short bursts, but he refused to stop. The memory of modern life taunted him—the ease of flipping a switch, the warmth of a heater. Now, none of that existed. He was alone against nature, and nature was winning.
Hours passed, and exhaustion threatened to claim him. His fingers trembled, his eyes watered from the relentless cold, but then—smoke. A thin wisp curled upward from the dry grass. Jack's heart leaped. He blew on it gently, coaxing the ember to life. A tiny flame flickered and then—
It died.
"No, no, no!" Jack growled, his voice hoarse with desperation. He couldn't give up. He repeated the process, his hands raw, his energy nearly spent. And then—another ember, another flicker. This time, he shielded it from the wind, feeding it with bits of dry grass. The flame grew, catching onto the twigs, then the larger branches. Light and warmth spread through the shelter, and Jack collapsed beside it, laughing in disbelief.
Fire.
He had done it.
Jack watched the flames dance, his breath slowing as exhaustion set in. This was more than just warmth. It was survival. It was proof that he could adapt. As the fire crackled, he realized something important—if he could master this, he could master anything this world threw at him.
The Ice Age had tested him, and tonight, he had won.
With the fire finally burning steadily, Jack turned his attention to his next task—cooking his food. He carved thin slices from the bison meat he had gathered and skewered them on a sharpened stick, holding them over the flames. The scent of roasting meat filled the air, making his stomach tighten with hunger. He hadn't eaten properly in days, and the anticipation was almost unbearable.
After what felt like an eternity, he took his first cautious bite. The meat was tough and smoky, but it was warm and nourishing. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment. This wasn't a luxury—it was survival.
As the fire crackled and popped, Jack realized something else: fire wasn't just about warmth and cooking. It was about security. The flickering flames would keep predators at bay. The howls of wolves echoed in the distance, but they would think twice before approaching his glowing sanctuary.
Feeling emboldened, Jack gathered more wood to keep the fire burning through the night. He arranged stones in a small ring around it, reinforcing his shelter against the wind. He knew he couldn't stay in this makeshift camp forever—he needed to find better shelter, maybe even a cave—but for tonight, he had fire, food, and a growing sense of control over his fate.
As he lay back, staring at the glow of the flames, he realized that fire wasn't just a tool for survival. It was a symbol of progress, of defiance against the brutal Ice Age that sought to break him. And as long as he had fire, he had a fighting chance.
Tomorrow, he would begin the search for a real home.