I live in North Dakota. It gets cold up here in the winter; 40 below (not counting wind chill) happens regularly . . . that's the temperature when mercury turns to a solid and the street lights don't come on. And I, like other native NoDaks, have been stranded in more than one blizzard.

Usually I'd do what our couple do in this story; knock on the door, call out loudy and try to find a way to keep warm in a strange house. Unlike the folks in this tale, if/when the owner shows up, I ask for an ID. If the owner is a psychology professor, I off him or her right away. Why take a chance? We all know, we NoDaks anyway, that psych professors in an isolated cabin in a blizzard are pure trouble. You're money ahead in the game if you just grab the axe right away and get to work. Sociology professors are no better; I recommend the chainsaw that's usually in the woodshed out back. Political Science professors are bearable, but not if the blizzard lasts more than a day; use your own discretion.

Anyway that's how we do things up here. I teach theatre, so I'm delightful company to the stranded wayward travellers who bang on my door. We sometimes say, "40 below keeps the riff-raff out." And we'd like to keep it that way.