and the cold from the snow is not enough to penetrate, at least not yet.
I smile as I hear Paul say, Solis, well done. I close my eyes and, just before I fall off, I have one thought: He spoke to me. It wasn’t memory.
Chapter 32
A nother night without dreams. Dead. Soundless. I wake before dawn and hear nothing. No howling. No wind. I am warm, but the chill of the snow is there, and I immediately claw my way out and stand up.
“I’m alive,” I shout. “Paul, wherever you are, I’m alive.”
I roll up my bag and drink the small amount of water that melted in my overnight bottle. My legs have not recovered, and I can feel the pain and ache in them from the very first step.
I push across the open grass and the farther I go, the more endless it seems. I fear my mind is slipping as I keep looking around, feeling that somebody is following me. For a minute I imagine it is Paul, who recovered and decided to come find and save me. But he never comes. You can dream all you want, Jane, I tell myself, but this is just about you. Focus, Solis, focus.
I near the wooded forest on the horizon. I’ve trudged for most of the day in knee- and thigh-deep snow. My legs are dead and frozen in a way they’ve never been. I look back and there’s a sight so horrific, I gag.
It isn’t Paul that’s been following me, but a wolf. A lone black wolf, moving sideways and forward. I watch it zigzag along, and at first I think it might be hunting for rabbits or prairie dogs. But now I feel its eyes on me; it’s walking slowly, stalking me, waiting for me to falter. Then it will pounce on me and rip the meat from my bones.
With each step, I see the wolf coming closer. The closer the wooded area is, the nearer the wolf comes to me. Does he know that safety might lie just beyond the flat snow grasses for me? I experience a burst of adrenaline and move through the final twenty yards of snow and grass faster than I would have thought possible.
I glance behind me often. As my pace increases, so does the wolf’s. He trots and seems to be following a straighter path than before. He pauses when I look directly at him. I sense there is some fear in him as well. The thought of that emboldens me. The big bad wolf is afraid of me! Well, maybe not afraid, but he’s being cautious before he launches an attack.
I reach the wooded area and turn quickly, sizing up the wolf. He is bone thin. He stops in his tracks, and for the first time, he doesn’t turn his head. I want to run, but something in my gut tells me to stand still, if even for a second. His eyes are yellow and his fur is mostly black with grayish patches. He leans awkwardly on his left paw, lifting his right. Is he injured? I can’t tell. I’ve yet to see any other wolves. Has he left his pack or been left behind?
With his probable injury, I suspect his speed is limited and his limited ability to climb is further diminished. I reach a large pine tree about fifty feet into the woods and begin climbing it. I stop for a moment to look back, but I don’t see anything. If he had wanted to attack me straight on, it would have happened already, right? Just climb, Jane, climb.
The tree is thick with branches and each snow-encrusted branch takes a minute to navigate, but I make steady progress up the trunk. I think I hear a soft growl below me, but I do not look down. Then there’s some scratching on the trunk, but I convince myself that his injury will prevent him from climbing. And even if he can climb, I’d rather fight him from above in a tree then in an open field, where he would surely overpower me.
I slip and slide my way a good twenty feet up, find a good perch, and stop. I pull out my two climbing sticks and sit and wait to do battle. I’ll probably die up here, but at least I’ll die fighting. Is that a little bloodlust moving through my veins? I almost relish a fight at this point. I sense an uninhibited craziness brewing inside me, but it’s so different from what I felt at the hospital. It has purpose, and I’m in control of it.
I wait and listen but hear nothing except the normal night sounds of the forest. The wind whistles softly, a branch breaks and falls in the distance, and I listen to the rustling of trees against one another. A little fear snakes up my back as I imagine the wolf making its way up the branches, slinking slowly and methodically.
Would I hear it? In this darkness, will I hear it climb? I push the thoughts from my head. Don’t let the voices take over again, Jane. I think of Paul, and I wonder if he’s alive. The wind blows and I imagine that’s him sending me a hug from afar.
But what am I going to do? I can’t go down now.
I unroll my sleeping bag and perch on a clump of large branches, hooking my feet under and over them to brace myself. I snuggle down into the bag, zip and seal the top, and press my back against the trunk as firmly as possible.
As I sit in this tree, I contemplate the cold. I am freezing now beyond comprehension. I know that the temperature outside is mild compared to what we faced before, so the chill in my bones frightens me. I’m cold now because my body is running out of energy, and it’s damaged by my exertion and exposure for the last few days. I may be stronger than I thought I was, but I’m weakening too. I can only hope that somebody finds me soon.
Chapter 33
I’m awake all night. Adrenaline is pumping through my body, which has gone into a serious protection mode, with all my sensory powers on full alert. I register every twig snap from miles away, and I find myself twitching constantly until the sun rises.
From up in the tree, I watch dawn begin to spread across the sky. It is clear, and I think it will be warm. This is it, I promise myself. This is my day. This is the day I walk out of here. This is the day I find help for Paul.
I climb down slowly and have my sticks at the ready. When I touch ground, I look around carefully and see that there are paw prints all around the tree but no sign of the wolf. I start to walk west, resuming the direction I’ve been traveling.
It is slow going. The forest is thick, hilly, and full of rocks, large and small. I’m tired and my nerves are shot from last night, so I trip and fall more than usual. Each time I fall, I panic and anticipate the wolf. My knees buckle several times as my legs weaken from the stress and lack of nourishment. My body, which has been working harder than I ever asked it to before, craves water more than anything else. It is the first time I fear dehydration, but if I choose to eat the snow, hypothermia will kill me. Despite its early promise, the sun disappears behind a cloud bank. I shake my head at my earlier optimism. But I don’t feel pathetic or disgusted the way I might have last week. It’s better than having no sun at all. I celebrate its warmth even as I feel disappointment. I’ve just got to hang on until the clouds move by again. I keep moving, one foot in front of the other.
My hands are starting to freeze. They’ve been cold for days, but this morning I notice how numb the fingers on my left hand feel. I look at the tips of my fingers, and they look darker. I can’t decide if it’s paranoia; I’m pretty sure it’s real, but I’m not sure if it means I’ll lose my fingers.
My mind flashes on the knife in my hand and the time not so long ago when I thought slicing myself would bring me some kind of joy. Now the thought of losing even an ounce of my blood repulses me. I wiggle my fingers for a second and pray that I can keep them in the end.
At around noon, I stop walking. I’ve been fighting for hours, and I don’t feel like I’ve made much progress. I find a large stick and pick it up. It’s about six inches taller than my head, fits nicely in my hands, and feels sturdy. I walk with it, and it provides the balance and support that I desperately need. I only wish I’d stumbled on the idea earlier.
When I first hear the sound of the river, it comes as a dull roar. At first there is a low tone, like the moan of tired television in a distant room. But it grows louder with each step I take, and eventually the correct synapses in my brain fire and connect, and I get it. River. Water. I pick up my pace and quickly find myself standing on top of a ravine, looking down at a thick, lush, flowing river.
I look north and south, up and down the river, but there’s no entry point. I could try to walk along the river, but I’m not entirely sure my body can carry me any farther. With water, yes, I could keep going. But between the lack of food and dehydration, I’m dead on my feet. It’s so close. I look down. The drop is maybe fifteen feet down a
