An Algorithmic Guide to Hypothermia

Three friends thought their smart-tech could conquer the wilderness. Instead, their smart-hut encased their food in emergency flotation foam.

This was it. The precipice of self-actualization. Norm sucked in a lungful of air so cold it felt like swallowing glass shards, and told himself it was cleansing. The gear, spread out on the ice around them, was a splash of obnoxious primary colors against the white-grey landscape.

A monthly subscription box. 'Wilder-Nest: Curated Outdoor Experiences, Powered by AI.' Every item was sleek, minimalist, and probably useless. The solar-powered thermos hadn't charged in the weak winter sun, and the self-threading fishing line had already tangled itself into a knot worthy of a doctorate in topology. But the aesthetic was on point. That had to count for something.

Greg stabbed a finger at his phone screen, his face illuminated by its cold blue light. "Okay. The algorithm has spoken. Optimal biomass density is seventy-three meters northeast. It's cross-referencing satellite thermal imaging with user-submitted catch logs and, get this, local sonar pings from commercial fishing charters. We’re literally fishing in the future."

He strode off, boots crunching with an unearned confidence. Penny and Norm exchanged a look. Norm could see the doubt in her eyes, a mirror of his own, but they both dutifully grabbed their gear and followed their designated leader. The spot Greg stopped at looked… weird. The ice had a glassy, dark-green sheen, and a faint, swampy smell hung in the air. A tiny stream of bubbles fizzed up from a crack near Greg’s foot.

"App says the methane release attracts microorganisms, which attracts the fish," Greg said, already tapping at his screen again. "Classic trophic cascade. It’s a feature, not a bug." He stamped his foot. The ice gave a low groan that vibrated up Norm’s spine. "Solid. Now, Penny, the shelter. The tutorial said thirty seconds for full deployment."

Penny pulled out the 'Aero-Hut,' a compact silver cylinder that promised 'NASA-grade insulation and one-touch setup.' She propped her phone on a gear bag, the tiny video showing a smiling influencer effortlessly popping the hut open in a sunny, green field. "Okay… 'Depress the primary actuator button for three seconds,'" she muttered, reading the on-screen text. Her thumb, clumsy in its thick glove, pressed down on a large, friendly-looking red button.

It wasn't the right button.

There was a violent hiss, like a thousand punctured tires. A thick, bright-orange substance erupted from vents all over the cylinder. It wasn't a hut. It was a rapid-deployment emergency flotation device. The foam shot out with incredible speed, a monstrous, expanding tumor of chemical disaster. It engulfed their supply pack—the one with all the food, the water filter, and the first-aid kit. In seconds, the gear was the epicenter of a solidifying block of hideous orange foam, hard as rock and twice as buoyant.

Silence. The three of them stared. The block of foam steamed slightly in the freezing air. Greg slowly lowered his phone.

"The AI… did not predict this variable," he whispered.

"No kidding, you digital prophet!" Penny shrieked, kicking the orange mass. It was like kicking a boulder. She just hurt her foot. "Our food is in there! Our actual, edible food!"

Norm’s mind raced. Panic was a greasy film rising in his throat. Problem. Solution. Pivot. Disrupt. That’s what the podcasts said. "Okay. Okay. Don't panic. This is a learning opportunity. An iteration. I have a solution." He unzipped his pack and pulled out the drone. The 'Aero-Signal Pro.' Its carbon-fiber body gleamed. "I’ll fly it up. Get a signal. Send an SOS. Or better yet, I can get an epic aerial shot of this whole thing. The juxtaposition of our struggle against the sublime indifference of nature. It’ll be an artistic statement."

"Just get a signal!" Greg yelled.

The drone whirred to life, lifting off the ice with a sound like an angry hornet. Norm’s eyes were glued to the phone screen clipped to the controller. The view was incredible. The vast, empty lake, the setting sun painting the clouds in shades of bruised purple and pink. And them, three tiny figures centered around their monument to idiocy. He had to get the angle right. A low, dramatic sweep, capturing their despair. He toggled the controls, panning the camera down, framing them perfectly.

"Dude, what are you doing? Fly it higher!" Greg shouted.

"Art takes time!" Norm snapped, his focus absolute. He was so intent on capturing the perfect shot of his own failure that he failed to notice the lone, skeletal tree on the shoreline. The drone, executing its graceful, cinematic arc, did not. There was a sickening crunch of plastic and splintering wood. The phone screen went black. The hornet-buzz died, replaced by the crushing silence of the wind.

They all looked at the tree. The drone was impaled on a high branch, a pathetic piece of technological roadkill.

An hour passed. The sun had bled out below the horizon, leaving a deep indigo stain in its place. Their phone batteries were all dead. The cold was no longer cleansing; it was predatory. It seeped through their AI-selected, 'minimalist' outerwear and sank its teeth into their bones. Shivering had become their default state.

"I found something," Penny said, her voice trembling. She held up a small, silver foil packet she’d found in her pocket. 'Nutri-Paste 5000: Complete Meal Replacement.' One serving. 500 calories of viscous, nutrient-rich sludge.

Three pairs of eyes fixed on the packet.

"We should split it," Penny said, her attempt at fairness sounding thin and desperate.

"No," Greg countered, his teeth chattering. "That’s inefficient. We need to allocate the resource to the person with the highest probability of successful self-rescue. I have the highest body-mass index. I require more calories to prevent hypothermic shutdown. It's just basic biology."

"I’m the lightest!" Penny argued. "I could travel farthest on the same amount of energy! Efficiency, Greg! We have to think about efficiency!"

"We need a leader!" Norm declared, trying to sound authoritative. "A clear chain of command. The calories should go to the decision-maker. That’s me. I tried to signal for help!"

"You tried to take a selfie and killed our only hope!" Penny screamed.

The argument dissolved into a miserable, shivering shouting match, their voices raw and useless against the vastness. They were so absorbed in their pathetic squabble over the silver packet in Penny's hand that none of them saw the flicker of movement at the edge of their vision. A shadow, low and swift. A red fox, its fur the color of rust, darted in. Its movements were silent, economical, and brutally effective. It snatched the packet from Penny's numb fingers and was gone before she could even gasp.

They stared at the spot where the fox had been, then at Penny's empty hand. The wind howled, mocking their silence. The fox was gone, and the first star pricked a hole in the darkening sky.