“Desperation drives you to do things. Things you might hate doing. It takes away all your choices. Please understand, please remember, that everything I’ve done, I’ve done for my family.”

This time I finally heard the message beneath her words.

Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for my family.

She wasn’t talking about the past few years. She was talking about the past few minutes.

35

How long am I out? Long enough that by the time I can refocus my eyes, I am stretched flat on my stomach with my arms extended before me. My wrists are being tied together, and when I lift my face from the snow, I see a stooped figure lashing the ropes to an idling snowmobile.

The sound of revving engines reverberates inside my skull. Ice adheres to my lips. My mouth tastes of blood and exhaust fumes.

In my life I have incurred as many concussions as an All Pro tight end. But I don’t feel like I’m going to vomit. Bells aren’t ringing in my ears. Aside from the double vision and the localized headache, I am not experiencing any of the familiar symptoms of traumatic brain injury.

Even my confusion passes. I blink and squint and realize that the person tying the ropes is a woman. She has a scoped AR-15 rifle slung over her shoulder. The machine she climbs aboard is ruby red, which means the woman is probably Tiff, reclaiming her ride.

And the torture she has planned for me is obvious even before she casts a glance at my trussed body.

“He’s awake!” she shouts, and there’s no missing the joy in her voice.

“We’ve got to go!” shouts a man.

I get a glimpse of the big vehicle that rammed Reynolds’s pickup. It is an ancient Chevy Suburban with a push bumper grill guard on the front, and it is the first to peel out. The sleds take off, one after another. At least three of them, maybe four. Tiff waits. She wants a clear lane ahead so she can open the throttle.

I have lost my gloves or had them removed. I close my hands around the rope above my wrists before she accelerates because I don’t want the sudden force to snap bones or tear ligaments in my wrists. I don’t know if it will help. But I know I don’t have the strength to hold on for more than a couple of minutes.

When the sled takes off, there is an instant that seems elastic when I don’t budge. It feels like a miracle has occurred. The knots have somehow slipped free. Then a barrage of powder and ice hits me and I feel a jerk, like my arms are being pulled from their sockets. The rope goes taut, and I am being dragged on my chest and thighs across the field.