It had been a stupid idea to wander about in the snow. Warrick blamed the stupidity entirely on whatever flight of imaginative fancy had persuaded him that he'd heard something besides the howl of wind that had persisted for the past few days. A voice. Someone calling out. A connection to someone or something real - besides him - that existed in this void of white. He'd wanted it badly enough to trek out into the blinding snow and look for footprints or scratch marks on trees or anything at all to tell him he wasn't crazy, and now it was getting darker and colder (as if that were even possible) and the tracks he'd made in the drifts had long since filled with new snow, obliterating his retreat.

He'd probably die out here. Well good. It would save him the agony of starving to death or losing his toes to frostbite if he simply froze to death. Bit cowardly to lie down in the snow and succumb, though there wouldn't be anyone to witness it. Warrick struggled on stubbornly instead, chin tucked down against the bite of the wind, which was probably why he almost bumped into the walls of the cabin before he noticed it.

"Oh, thank Christ," he muttered to himself as tapped at the solid logs, beyond the point of caring whether this was a cold-induced hallucination or not. He'd rather freeze to death in illusory comfort, if that were an option. And it seemed that it might be.

From the flickering of shadow behind the frosted windows, there might even be a light source somewhere within, and light meant heat. Stumbling with the eagerness to get inside, he trekked around the small shack until he found the door and then flung himself at it.