He tries to bat my hand away, but the burn kicks in. His hands fly to his eyes. An animalistic roar tears from his throat. His knees hit the ground. Coughs rack his body. I spray again, get the side of his face. Sputtering, he swings at me, but I dance back and he misses. I look around for his weapon. It’s on the ground. Too close to him for me to reach. I need my hands free first.

I dart right to the disking implement, drop to my knees, and use the rim of the plowshare to saw at the fabric binding my wrists. The pain in my ribs screams with every movement, but I don’t stop. I don’t slow down. I scour at a frantic pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. My breaths rushing in and out as the pain hacks like an ax against my ribs.

Comeon. Comeon. Comeon. The words are a scream inside my head.

Four feet away, Suggs coughs and spits, digging into his eyes with his fingers. I’m about to give up on the binds and make a run for it when the fabric gives way. Hands free, I rise and start toward Suggs and his .38.

He turns devil-red eyes on me. Nose and eyes streaming. Tears and snot dripping off his chin. “You fucking—”

I hit him with the spray again.

Spinning, I sprint through the door and into the night.

*   *   *

I run to the snowmobiles, checking for keys as I pass. Nothing there. Damn. Damn. Damn. Pouring on the speed, I lope toward the cover of the trees and the path that brought me here, think better of it, and swerve right. I’m running full out when I enter the woods. There’s just enough moonlight for me to make out the trunks as I whiz past. I try to keep an eye on the ground, watch for fallen logs, rocks or holes or anything else that might send me tumbling. But all I see is a blur of white.

Behind me, I hear shouting. Suggs. The rev of a snowmobile engine. Yoder and Smucker are coming after me.

I’m in no shape to run. The pain in my side is intense and growing worse as my breathing begins to labor. I’m in good physical condition, but I won’t be able to keep this up for long. My only hope is that the rough terrain and dense trees will slow them down. Had I stayed on the path, they’d already be on top of me.

The land slopes abruptly. My feet tangle and I nearly go down, but manage to maintain my balance. I slow my pace, ignore the pain, keep moving. I’m running parallel with the path I used to get here. The same path the snowmobilers use. If I stay on course, I should be able to find my way back to the trailer, my cell—and my .38.