She turned her head slowly and saw it just beyond her reach.
Screen spiderwebbed.
Lifeless.
Close enough to mock her.
She tried to stretch her fingers toward it.
Agony tore through her chest and forced a strangled sound from her throat.
Three inches might as well have been a mile.
North Hemlock Pass was deserted.
At night, it belonged to the cold and whatever else moved under the trees.
“No one’s coming,” she whispered.
The wind stole the words immediately.
Sleep tugged at her—heavy, seductive.
She knew enough to recognize it for what it was:
The lie hypothermia tells before it wins.
She bit her lip until she tasted blood.
Just to stay anchored.
Then she heard it.
Movement.
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