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Cold air stings her cheeks like a thousand tiny needles pricking at her skin. Dried leaves and twigs crunch under her feet. Several times, her feet slip in patches of snow that still linger on the ground. A heavy hand presses down on her shoulder, steering her through the darkness. The barrel of a gun knocks against the base of her skull and her scalp still burns from where he grabbed her hair, pulling until it started to tear from the roots. The rest of her body is numb with the cold. She wishes she had her coat.
“I’m freezing,” she says, wishing her voice didn’t sound so much like a whimper.
“Shut up,” he says. His fingers dig into the flesh just below her collarbone. The cold metal of the gun bites into her skin.
“Please,” she says. “I need a coat or something.”
“Don’t need a coat where you’re going,” he says brusquely.
Where is she going? A shallow grave in the woods? The thought—no, the stark reality—that she is on her final march to death sends a juddering breath through her. Her teeth begin to chatter, from the cold or the panic building inside her with every step, she doesn’t know. How can he even tell where they are going? Everything around them is inky black. The moon is a smudge behind translucent clouds.
“You don’t have to do this,” she says, and this time she makes no attempt to hide the pleading in her tone.
“You made your choice,” he growls.
“P-p-please,” she stammers.
“Shut up.”
He pushes her violently and her legs go out from under her. Blackness rushes at her face, and her hands shoot out to break her fall. The sharp edge of a rock slices into the palm of her
left hand. Before she can react, his hand tangles in her hair again, lifting her. The gun is at her temple now, digging into her skin.
“Now,” comes the gravelly voice. “You’re going to give me what I want.”
