*Stone Cold

Intro: This story started out as a writing prompt about a man waking up in an igloo with no idea how he got there. I wasn't feeling very creative but I think this story turned out pretty well but it definitely is not what I usually write.

The first thing Henry saw when he opened his eyes, was his breath. His last remembered location was a beach in Southern California watching the firework display and enjoying the open bar. He had just called his friends and told them he was headed over after the festivities finished. Even though the car wasn't considered new anymore, he still liked to show it off. He had to sign a mountain of paperwork and hand over his phone for a day before they would even let him drive it off the lot.

When his eyes focused on the scenery behind his frozen breath he sat up and hit his head. The white room was marred by a figure sitting in one of the corners. Henry couldn't tell the sex or age of the person because a large parka enveloped everything from the feet to the top of the head. A chill snaked its way down his back and he rubbed his arms as he continued to look around the room. The ceiling curved as did the walls and he saw the cracks of the bricks.

"I'm in an igloo. I'm in a freaking igloo."

The person spoke but it didn't sound remotely like English. He thought it might be some dialect of an oriental langue but wasn't sure. Not only did his head ache from hitting it on the ceiling but from all of the booze the night before. He rummaged through his pockets and found a rock and a few coins Not exactly what he was hoping for, considering his wallet and everything in it was missing.

"Where's my wallet?"

The person just rattled off another string of text he couldn't understand. The voice sounded familiar.

"I can't believe this is happening. I feel like I'm trapped in a bad movie. You don't expect me to save the day, do you?"

Henry's frustration mounted with every freezing minutes. For a while he crawled around the space but there wasn't any sign of a door. He rubbed his arms, breathed into his hands, wiggled his legs, anything to try and stay warm. The headache from the hangover lessened but his head still hurt from hitting it.

Just as he was getting ready to pummel the Inuit-wannabe a portion of the wall clicked open.

"Mr. Johanson, you have been cleared to leave," the Inuit said pushing back the hood. "Have a nice day."

"Have a nice day, my foot," he grumbled climbing out of the igloo into the warm California air. A young woman outside handed him his wallet, phone, and keys. He snatched them.

"What the blazes is going on?"

"Your phone call last evening that led us to believe you were in danger of breaking your contract."

"What contract?"

"The one you signed when you purchased your car saying you won't drive the car while intoxicated."

"I didn't call you."

"No," said the Inuit, who was actually a thin young man under all that coat. Henry knew he'd met him somewhere but couldn't place it. "But we received the call nonetheless."

For a moment, Henry just stared at him then fingered his phone. "That's called a wire tap and it is illegal," Henry said.

"No, you signed all of the release forms when you bought the car."

"You're that salesman who sold me the car."

"Have a nice day," the man replied. "This is strike one. We catch you drunk again with the intent to drive, you lose your license privileges."

Henry fell silent and fingered his keys. Losing his license would be stupid. He was the only one out of his group of friends who could drive.

"Hey," the young woman said with a smile. "Don't feel too bad. At least no one was injured. We got to you in time."

Henry stayed for a couple of minutes after the staff left counting the igloos at the designated driver training camp, Stone Cold.