There was an explosion of pain in my right wrist, followed by an almost immediate numbness, like I’d sat on it. I went to pry myself off the wall but felt a tugging in my shoulder. My arm wasn’t following instructions. It sounds stupid that I had to look at it to figure it out: the coffin had slammed into the middle of my forearm, pinning it to the wall. I’d just seen a skeleton’s hand, so I had a queasy image of the dozens of tiny bones I’d probably broken. But that was the least of my problems. Before, the truck had been ambling down the slope as I unconcernedly tried to stumble out of it. Now, as it continued to pick up speed, I was trapped.

I used my good arm to tug at my immobilised elbow, but it wouldn’t budge. I then tried to work my fingers between the coffin and the wall, attempting to relieve even the smallest millimetre of pressure, just a smidge, but it was too heavy. My fingers came away slick and wet. Blood. I couldn’t feel it, everything was numb with shock, but I was tearing the skin from my hand as I pulled. A paramedic would tell me later – when I was off the mountain, after three more deaths and an unmasked killer – while threading a curved metal needle through hanging flaps of skin, that the medical term was ‘degloving’. I’m glad I hadn’t known that at the time; I would have fainted.

I looked back to the entrance to assess my chances of rescue, which were less than reassuring. Erin was still keeping up, despite the deep snow, but the look on her face gave away her urgency. I could see her reaching into the truck, her head moving in a slight hop as she tried to get purchase and scramble in, but eventually losing her grip and sliding away into the distance, before coming back to try again.

‘I’m stuck,’ I called, not sure if she could see the coffin pancaking my arm. A tinkle of screws and bolts rolled across the floor. ‘How far to the lake?’

‘That’s probably a question’—she was panting now; the depth of the fresh snow was tiring her more than the pace, and making it even harder for her to jump into the hip-height truck—‘you don’t want to know the answer to.’

That answered my question as much as not answering it would have. Time was not only borrowed, it was charging interest. I placed my feet against the coffin and tried pushing it sideways instead, pulling back so hard I thought my arm might come loose from my shoulder socket. It didn’t give an inch.

‘Where’s the main road?’ I called. ‘The snowbank that borders it . . .’ It was hard to catch my breath. ‘Might be enough to stop us.’