6. Winter

SIX

WINTER

I 've spent much of the last twenty minutes staring at the sky, divorcing my body from my mind. It doesn't work.

I just killed someone.

Not someone. I just killed Adam.

My hands start to tremble as the finality of his death settles in, and the fresh kiss of reality I'm desperate to avoid starts to score into my flesh.

I just killed Adam Collins.

The tang of blood in my mouth alerts me to the severity of my injuries.

Ankle: likely sprained.

Ribs: fucked and probably cracked.

The rest of me:

The rest of me….

My jaw tenses and the shock of pain causes me to bite my tongue, drawing more blood. Hot tears rush to fall.

You will not cry. You will not break. Pull yourself together and get to safety.

I roll to my side, facing him as I do because even though I know he is dead, I can't allow myself to risk turning my back on him .

But he can't hurt me, not anymore. The sharp stab to his brainstem took care of that.

Forceful waves of nausea wash over me as I attempt to stand by getting on my hands and knees. There's a puddle of blood where my palms meet the ground. It streams from the holes in his head, thick and dark red.

I heave, nothing but saliva coming up as I retch.

I killed Adam Collins.

Move one leg. Then the other.

I'm upright.

The Tahoe idles with the driver door open, and I hop over to it, testing what weight I can put on my ankle now that it's had time to swell. I can walk, but not very well.

I grab the duffle bag from the passenger seat and pull out a fresh T-shirt and black basketball shorts to wear without looking at them—Adam's spare outfits. The fabric against my skin feels warm yet rough. I welcome it. Also, I want to strip it off and peel my skin from my bones while I'm at it.

Control. Control yourself.

I reach into the bag again, and a wail of dismay escapes me when I realize he doesn't have a spare pair of shoes.

"Of all the things he could overlook," I say to the trees.

Something un-nameable forces me to repeat myself. "Of all the things he could overlook!"

A snort flies out of me, and that sound turns into a giggle which turns into a full-blown hysterical laugh. My broken ribs and the cracks in my lip protest, but I can't stop.

I gaze at Adam's body and contemplate stealing his shoes.

"He creates an elaborate plan to abduct me but forgets to bring more shoes!" I cackle, scream at the sky, a small kernel of my brain realizing I'm breaking, devolving into madness.

I slide behind the wheel, leaving the door ajar with my shoeless feet suspended over the running board.

My ankle is almost twice the size of the other, and the sight causes a new wave of laughter to bubble up .

Howling echoes around me and I snap my head up, looking along the tree line for threats. I haven't seen any wolves or bears in my time here, but I wasn't really looking for them.

The animal calling out in the woods right now is entirely too close for comfort.

I swing my body to face the steering wheel, slamming the door shut and locking it for an extra layer of protection.

Wildlife can't work a car door, Winter.

The thought makes me snort again.

I stare at the instrument gauges.

"Put your foot on the brake and shift into ‘drive,' Winnie."

Daddy's voice is so clear in the vehicle, I jump in the seat. It feels like he's right there.

When I confirm that he's not, I take a cleansing breath. A grounding breath. When I close my eyes, I allow myself to be comforted by the memory.

We're in an abandoned church parking lot somewhere near Mom's hometown. I still wear my Sunday dress — the lace on my socks scratches my ankles.

I'm on Daddy's lap, steering our sedan around the parking lot while he drives in slow circles. The windows are down. Sade's Smooth Operator blasts through the stereo. A bright smile shines from Mom's face. She's just a lawyer now, not a U.S. Representative.

"Smoooooooth," Mom drawls.

"Operatooooooor," Daddy chimes in.

I join them, singing along to the chorus of the song. We drive in circles for the whole ride. When it's finally time for me to hop in the back seat, Mom and Daddy look at each other from their vantage points in the front seat. Their kiss is brief, but when they part, they smile.

I flex my bloodied hands against the steering wheel of the Tahoe and stare at Adam's body. When the wolves come out of the shadows, I allow myself to feel. Because as they circle his body, I smile.

I killed Adam Collins. And I'm glad I did it.

I stay there until the first wolf attacks his leg. Then I put the vehicle in gear.

I sensed a larger road at the end of the crude path on the way into the cabin site, so I follow the nudges toward it. Hopefully, I'm going the right way and not off a ravine.

Over the past few days, I've determined that I'm at a higher elevation, considering the cold, snowy climate at the cabin. As I wind through the back country roads, I think I'm in the Appalachian Mountains. Maybe the Blue Ridge. But with no cellphone, no money, and no real sense of direction due to the overcast sky, my only option is to drive until I reach civilization.

So I do that. I drive, not thinking of anything for three hours until the throbbing in my ankle and the dwindling fuel supply takes my immediate attention. It doesn't take very long for me to embrace the fact that I have no clue where I am.

I'm lost. I'm lost, I'm lost, I am lost.

My vision starts to narrow, and I go cold as if ice water were dumped on my head.

Keep it together, Winter. Breathe in.

My hands vibrate.

Breathe out.

My stomach clenches.

Ground yourself.

"Keep your hands at ten and two," Daddy says.

"And when you get fancy, four and seven," Mom adds.

Whispers of their voices circle around me.

What do you know is real, Winter?

Am I here? Is this real? Am I still on that floor in the cabin, broken into pieces? Am I dead ?

"Smooth operator…" My voice cracks, pain shooting through my voice box and radiating from my wrecked jaw.

I try again, clearing my throat, desperate to hold on to my sanity. The pain snaps me into my body, but I feel my hold slipping.

Sunshine. Happiness. Mom and Daddy. Hunter, Hunter, Hunter….

"Smo—" I lean back to activate my diaphragm and push the sound out. My ribs scream at the movement.

Unleashing a deep, rough, frustrated sound, I slam my hand on the steering wheel and finally attempt to turn on the radio. A cut on my knuckle begins to bleed again.

Before my hand reaches the radio power button, a deer runs in front of the SUV, and I jerk the wheel to the right to avoid hitting it. Slamming on the brakes, my entire battered body revolts at the sudden movement. I skid to a stop, my breathing erratic. The deer leaps off into the dark forest.

The kick-start of adrenaline causes the fine tremor in my body to turn into quaking. It's a deep, unsettling sensation starting in the base of my spine and radiating through every extremity. The feeling zaps the ends of my matted, tangled hair. The short-sleeved shirt I took from the bag grates against my skin.

I reach my quivering hands up to my face before pulling them down. Adam's blood covers my arms down to my fingers. Mud and matter cake my nail beds. The manicure I took so much time giving myself, even with my short nails, is a lost memory. The shaking, the shaking, the shaking continues. My eyes twitch.

My teeth chatter.

The overwhelming urge to scream and vomit and rage, rage, rage batters against my shot nerve endings.

I blink and find myself standing on the abandoned road.

I blink and snap to at the agony in my ankle as I pace back and forth, back and forth .

So cold, so cold, so cold. Will I get warm again?

I hit a patch of ice and fall to my knees. The pain is so blinding, so searing, I start to scream.

And I don't stop screaming.

The sound wrenches from the depths of my soul—the depths of my despair. Birds that should be far away, dormant, flap their wings as they escape the shattering power of my wrath.

I scream. I scream. I scream. I scream. I scream until my voice is nothing more than a rasp, guttural and hoarse.

The feeling of out-of-control fury and agony spins and weaves in my body. In the back of my mind, a whisper of cognizance touches my consciousness.

Ground yourself.

I gag. Sobbing. My body is wrecked. And then. I breathe in. Hold. I breathe out. Hold. I breathe in. Hold. I breathe out. Hold.

My vision starts to clear, and I'm able to take in other visual stimuli outside of the asphalt and the contrast of the dimming sky.

But it's not enough. It's not enough. It might never be enough.

I lay down on the cold, damp ground, turning my head so part of my cheek rests on the concrete. I remain silent, trying to breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.

Hunter.

His name is a whisper, a painful hiss in my brain.

No.

I breathe in. I hold. I breathe out.

Hunter, where are you?

I breathe in. I hold. I breathe out.

"Where are you?" I shriek as sobs wrack my body. My soul's anguish adds to the physical pain I'm soaked in.

I bring my hands to my chest and belly, trying to breathe in and out as I learned in all the therapy sessions I've been in .

So many therapy sessions.

So many therapy sessions because of Adam. Adam. Adam.

Hunter.

I try to fill the space where my palms touch my abdomen with the movement of my breath.

But my hands shake too much for it to register.

Hunter. Are you coming for me?

I squeeze my sore eyelids shut, pressing them so tight that the insides of my lids feel like they're contorted into an unnatural position.

Yes.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

"One. One, two, one. One, two, three, two, one…."

I repeat the refrain over and over. Time doesn't matter; it ceases to exist.

"Sunbeam." The voice is clear, unmistakable. But I know he isn't here.

"Sunbeam, you did it."

Spit threatens to choke me from the force of my wailing.

Then slowly and all at once, a blanket of peace wraps around me. I close my eyes and rest.

I eventually get up from the ground, but I don't know how much time has passed. From one blink to the next, I'm off the side of the road and back behind the wheel of the car. Just as the sun begins to dip behind the trees, I start to see signs of civilization. Or rather, I see another vehicle.

I feel a strange combination of fear and relief as the rickety pickup truck rumbles down the road. After a few minutes, I turn the bend and see signs for a farm-to-market road.

Ten minutes later, I run across a diner attached to a gas station. There's only one pump, and the diner has a lone late-model Honda Civic in the parking lot.

"I can't go in there like this," I say to the empty cabin. The heater hums. It's been blasting for the entirety of the ride—Adam must have set it, and I didn't notice that I'm boiling until just now. In the foot well of the passenger seat, there's a pack of water bottles. I rip into it and run the water over my hands as they hang over the passenger seat.

Fuck this car.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection and want to cry. I look feral. My hair is a lost cause. I feel a pang of sadness that it might be so matted that I have to cut off the locs. Grime covers my face, and blood and tear marks streak down the mess. I use the water and rub myself clean.

This is as good as it's gonna get.

Setting aside the fact that I'm barefoot, I exit and slam the door of the Tahoe as hard as I can, hoping to never see the inside of it again. A chime rattles against the door's metal frame as I enter the diner. No one stands behind the counter and disappointment settles in my gut. I hop sideways and peer into the kitchen pass-through.

Silence.

"Hello?" My voice still sounds hoarse from my breakdown on the side of the road.

A door at the far end of the diner claps against the wall, and my head whips toward the sound. I allow myself a moment to blink against the resulting dizziness the sudden movement causes.

A large man strolls out of what appears to be the bathroom. He stalls when he sees me, scratching at the flesh that peeks out from where his shirt doesn't meet his pants over his wide stomach. His eyes narrow when he takes in my appearance. Straightening, he adjusts his belt and kicks his leg a little, as if shaking ants out of his pants .

"We're closed," he says in a slow Appalachian drawl. So for sure not north of D.C.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I saw the light on," I say. My voice comes out much more robotic than I intend. "If I could just?—"

"Like I said," he interrupts. "We're closed. We don't want no kind of trouble 'round here." Then he waves his hand toward the door.

A distant part of my consciousness tells me to push back. To make him see that I don't need anything from him besides a single phone call.

Instead, I stare at him, my body and brain not communicating because I don't move.

"Go on, git," he says.

I don't try to stop the tears that fall. I can't get my muscles to unlock from where I've grown roots into the worn linoleum.

He takes a step toward me with a huff.

"Joseph Tate, what the heck are you doing to this girl?" A voice comes from the other side of the diner, and I must look like an owl with how fast my head turns toward it.

The spinning gets worse.

An older woman, probably in her late sixties, walks quickly along the counter's length to round out our unlikely trio.

I can tell her hair used to be blond, but now it's mostly silver-white and held up by a metallic clasp. Her blue eyes are sharp, and her skin is such a pale white I wonder if she's ever seen the sun.

"Hell, Jean, you know I can't cook for shit! And with you havin' to go pick up Terry for his shift, I was just doin' what you tol' me to do."

Jean shakes her head, giving him a disapproving look.

"I step away for two seconds and..." She sighs, not looking at Joseph. Her eyes land squarely on me. She lifts her eyebrows, but she doesn't give me anything besides that one reaction.

"Well, I'm gon' back to the station," Joseph says. He shuffles out the door, and I watch as he makes his way toward the fuel pumps adjacent to the diner.

"I…" I feel faint, hot, and cold. It's been more than twenty-four hours since my last can of unwarmed beans.

"Honey, sit down. Let me get you somethin'. Terry! Fire up that griddle quick and get me some scrambled eggs and grits. And hurry up!"

She turns sideways, assessing me without saying anything for a long moment.

"Sit down, child," she says, and I do as she commands, sitting on the stool attached to the diner counter. I can tell it used to be red, but now it's worn—almost pink.

"Ma'am," my voice cracks. "I don't have any money for food. At least, not on me right now. I just...if I could trouble you for a phone so I can call someone, I'd be so grateful."

She blinks at me, then leans closer.

"Who's looking for you, girl?" Jean rests her elbows on the counter, lowering her voice even though it's just her and me in the dining area.

I think about it. Is someone looking for me? My lower lip trembles as I think about Hunter.

"No one is looking for me," I say in just as low a tone. "But I am in a spot. I need to call my friend, and then I'll be out of your hair."

She looks at me, and I can tell she doesn't believe my story. The smell of breakfast sausage cooking wafts from the kitchen. A man's voice utters, "Shit!" and without turning around, Jean says, "Language, Terry!"

"Sorry, Ms.Jean!" he yells back.

"I tell you what," she says, grabbing a glass. She pours apple juice into it and pushes it toward me. "I'll get you that phone. Nothing but landlines out this way. Cellphones don't work up here. But eat something. You look like you're about to fall over."

Terry taps the bell twice, and Ms. Jean walks to the window. When she places the plate of food in front of me, I'm startled to discover tears tracking down my face.

I touch my wet cheeks and look at my damp fingers for a long moment. My eyes drift back to Ms. Jean, and she looks at me with a look I don't quite understand, but it telegraphs that she does understand.

"You're safe here, sweetie." She pushes a napkin toward me. "Now eat," she says and wanders down to the other end of the counter.

When my plate is clean, Ms.Jean places a cordless phone in front of me.

"Thank you, ma'am," I say, and I dial the only number I know by heart.

When I hear Veronica's voice on the other end, I let out a choked cry.

"Rons?" I whisper.

"Winter? Winter! Winter, Winter, Winter, oh God, where are you? Are you hurt? Are you safe? Do you need?—"

I pull the phone away from my face and hand it to Ms.Jean.

"Please tell her where I am. I'm going to..." I look around the room and spy one of the four empty booths. Without a word, I shuffle over and curl up on the long bench of the corner table.

Then, finally, I allow myself to lose consciousness.