“Use the hill-climbing button,” Harper says, for the moment sounding steadier.

The SUV lurches back and forth, tires alternately slipping and biting. My forehead breaks out in a sweat. I can’t sit in this car much longer. I’ll be sick. I’m sure of it. I twist left and right in my seat, trying to find the headlights through the tangle of dead trees. I see nothing.

Finally, Brecken makes it up to a small lot, pulling to the right where a closed camp registration booth sits between two gated paths leading in and out of the campground. He parks between two thick groves of brambles. A couple of pines create decent cover.

We will be hidden from the road here.

He won’t see us.

He won’t.

I say it in my mind, desperate to believe it. Desperate to wake up from this awful dream, so I can be with my mom. Does she even know that I miss her? On all our phone calls, when I ramble on about color and shadow and the next show—do I ever stop rambling about my art long enough to tell her that she still matters? That I love her?

“Tire tracks,” Josh says, his tone clipped and matter-of-fact. “He’ll just follow our tracks where they turn off the road into the driveway.”

“Shit.” Brecken flings the door open and sprints for the hill. Desperate for fresh air and high on adrenaline, I throw my door open, too, bolting after him. Snow sprays cold against my cheeks, and I drink it in with relief, feeling my stomach settle. My nerves are another story, but I follow Brecken.

He is trip-sliding his way to the bottom of the hill, already kicking at the snow closest to the campground entrance. He drags a large branch out from the forest, sweeping it in wide arcs. It’s working better than I’d have thought. And the wind is helping, too, howling across the road and up the hill to sting my eyes.

I try to stamp and shuffle to help the branch. It’s hard. Breathing is difficult out here—every gulp of air seems to drag ice into my lungs. Seeing is nearly impossible unless I shield my eyes. But when I do, I can see that our tracks aren’t just covered on the road. They snow has nearly drifted over them all the way back to the top of the hill. Maybe even before that. We should be okay.

Through the trees I see the truck’s headlights in the distance before they dip down the hill before ours. He’s much closer now.

“He’s coming! Hide!” I yell.