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As our passion builds and our hands run along each other’s bodies, a strong gust of wind nearly topples us over. We remain in our embrace and look to the east where the sky has gone from light pink to dark gray.

“Those clouds look mean,” Azalea says, tucking her head against my chest for warmth.

“They do,” I say. “Storms build fast here, a byproduct of the rapidly changing climate.”

“Should we get in the truck?” Azalea asks, a trace of fear in her voice.

I look around, searching for the best course of action. We would be safe inside the truck, but we might not be able to drive anywhere. We have records of 200 centimeters of snow falling in just a few hours here. If the storm is bad, there will not be enough visibility to navigate safely.

We need shelter. My eyes fall on a dark opening in an adjacent hillside a few hundred meters north of us. It might offer protection until the weather passes.

I take Azalea by the hand and lead her to the truck. “We must stay nearby for the night so we are not lost in the storm,” I say.

She moves as quickly as I do, one hand locked in mine, the other wrapped around my bicep to keep me close.

“As long as we’re together, I’m not worried,” she says.

I increase our pace, her words flooding me with an urgency born of energy and hormones.

Darkness falls quickly as snow begins to swirl around us. I get the truck moving before my door even has time to slam shut. The headlights illuminate the cave entrance as we approach, and it appears even bigger than I expected.

“Are we going in there?” Azalea asks warily.

“After I throw a flare in and confirm there are no bears, yes.”

“You brought bears to Mars?” she asks incredulously.

“Of course. They help spread berried plants and provide excellent meat.”

Azalea’s look suggests she cannot tell if I am joking or not, but that changes when I pull a flare from my bag. “Wait here. I will wave you over if it is safe.” I expect the native bears have found shelter on lower lands with denser woods and more berries, but I will not presumptuously enter a cave and find out otherwise.

I rush out of the truck, running toward the hillside while snowflakes as large as my fist pile on the ground underfoot. The snow reminds me of Russian winters and for a moment it takes me back to my childhood on the farm. Snowfalls and snowball fights. Nights spent by the fire drinking hot tea.

I strike my flare at the entrance to the mountain, waving it as I take a few steps forwards, hoping to scare any animals that might be within. Nothing stirs in response, so I move forward through the mouth of the cave, about three meters high, and step into a much larger cavern.

The space is cold but dry and safe from the wind.

As long as no mother bears return home in the middle of the night, this location could not be more ideal.

I rush out of the cave, into the storm growing around me. The bitter wind stings my cheeks. My ears burn with the cold. Ice as large as river stones begins to hail down from above, banging against the steel truck. I wave my arms for Azalea to join me, but the snow and hail are coming down so furiously that she cannot see me, even with the glare of the flare and headlights. I throw the flare back into the cave to keep it dry then move toward the vehicle as fast as possible. The return trip is already more difficult, ankle-high snow crunching beneath my boots and making each step a trial.

When I reach the truck and pull the door open, Azalea exhales and throws herself into my arms.

“It’s so dark, Marek.” The wind is so loud I can barely hear her.

I stay silent, knowing my reply would be swallowed by the din of the storm, instead lifting her out of the cab and then grabbing our bags from behind the seats.

Our arms lock, and I try to shelter her body with my own as we push through the blinding snow, my sense of direction our only way of finding the cave’s entrance. I locate the rock wall with an outstretched hand, feel my palm burn against the icy stone.

As soon as we pass through the threshold I see the light of the flare, and a few more steps has the snow behind us, the wind howling at our backs. We dust off our jackets and remove our hats, getting the moisture away from our bodies as fast as possible.

“Can we build a fire?” Azalea asks, shivering as she wraps her arms around herself.

“Da,” I say, kneeling next to my bag. If push came to shove, I could stoke a flame using twigs and rocks. I did it many times as a teenager sneaking out from my house on cold winter nights. Fortunately, modern provisions save us the time and effort.

I pull a small metal box from my bag, hardly bigger than a deck of cards. A small button in the center releases several pilots, then matching switches on the sides create a spark. Seconds later, a three-foot blaze flickers in front of us.

We stand close, feeling returning to our frozen fingers. Our heavy breathing quieting. My heart rate settles, the calm of the cave allowing me to reflect on the calamity of the last few minutes.