And he charged. He can’t have been stupid, because he had a good job and he did it well enough to keep it, but he was stupid that night because of the strain and the pain and the freezing temperature, and he did lunge right at me. I leaped to one side and as he shot by I shoved him as hard as I could using both hands, even with the broken arm screaming at me. He landed right at the lake’s edge, so I hadn’t been close enough, damn it. I’d wanted him to go into the chilly water. But he wasn’t getting up, and I took off. All those years of running finally gave me a reward for good behavior.

I was in the trees and working my way around the lake toward the inhabited cabin, the one with lights, which—I was almost certain—was the Hamiltons’.

I thought I heard him a million times. I hid for ten minutes, not moving, at least once; and maybe more than that. I was in too much pain to make sense, too cold to reason. I still had the knife, and though I thought of dropping it, I was scared to be without it in case he caught up with me. When I remembered how it had felt when the knife went into him, I had to stop and throw up. This was a queasy case. I didn’t remember ever getting the heaves over any case before. Probably, I thought, I could excuse myself for it over the knifing. But I’d gotten sick outside the barn, too. Maybe it was the torturing, not the knifing?

I knew I wasn’t thinking clearly, but knowing that didn’t seem to help. I actually shook my head, maybe in the hope that my brains would resettle in a more sensible configuration, but I was really sorry I did that after I got sick yet again. Something was wrong with me, something bad. I needed to go to the hospital! I giggled.

It sure must have been Tom that hit me with that shovel, I thought. If it had been Barney, he would’ve killed me.

I’d forgotten to move for a couple of minutes. I’d just been standing in the dark woods with my mind far, far away. I listened hard, but I couldn’t hear anything. That didn’t mean it wasn’t happening. I didn’t trust my senses anymore. But I made myself move, because I couldn’t stay out in the cold. I had to reach shelter.

That was the hardest struggle of my life. But I could see the lights and they were getting closer. I was farther from the road, far enough that I could only see lights passing occasionally. And who could tell whose lights they were, anyway?