The cold slows me as I go, like a clock winding down, and I have to stop and sit myself against a tree to lessen some of the weight of Julian in my arms. It is a wonder that such a small creature can, when held so long without respite, become such a heavy, leaden weight. My arms and back ache faintly, along with my wrenched neck, and I wish bitterly I were not so weak. If I were strong, I could have held on to the flashlight while carrying Julian in one arm.

The trees call out to me again in their fury. Sam! I know I must get up and keep going, keep moving, but my bones welcome the tree at my back that blocks the worst of the wind, and I could sit here all night, I think, blanketed in snow, and allow myself to simply drift away.

But the forest around me is alive, even at the darkest and coldest hour.

A branch snaps like a striking match. The river’s current dislodges floes of ice and sends them away, cracking. An owl hoots, like the sound of the wind. Bootheels crunch on snow, coming toward me, and I crouch lower over Julian, shielding him with my slight and narrow frame, trying to make us both invisible though I know Donovan’s eyes must be adjusting to the dark, as mine have. And while it remains impossible to make out any details of the forest around me, I can see the rough outlines of shapes and the glimmer of the moon touching down on the half-frozen river.

“You can’t run forever, Sam.” Donovan’s disembodied voice snakes around the trees from where his footsteps tread. “You need to give me my son. You can’t have him. You hear me?”

My breath ghosts out in front of my face. I cannot stop Julian from crying, from drawing his father to us with those plaintive, frightened mewls. When I reach inside the towel, I feel tiny fingers and toes that are far too cold.

Trying to still my chattering jaw, I whisper a near-inaudible promise to my nephew: “I won’t let anything happen to you. I won’t let you turn out like that. I won’t let him make you into that.” It becomes a chant, a plea, a prayer to the magic of the swamp to protect us from violence. It comes out loose and soft as my lips begin to go numb.

The footsteps are closer now. I can run, but he will give chase. He will hear Julian. So I sit, and I wait until the footsteps are just behind the tree, hoping he will not be able to see us, hoping the swamp’s strange enchantment will envelop us. The wine cork is still in my pocket, a meaningless artifact digging into my hip, absorbing nothing, useless.

It is in the next moment that my belief in magic falters.

Donovan steps around the tree and there is a small flame in his hand, setting an orange glow upon his face—a lighter. He reaches down with a frantic, scrambling motion to snatch Julian from my hands. I hold on and try to shove him away, but he resists, the flame whipping through the air and dazzling my eyes. I start to crawl on my back, around the curve of the tree trunk, kicking out at him with my numb feet and grunting with the effort. He grabs my ankle and pulls me to him across the snow; I shout, trying to twist away as he reaches for the towel-wrapped bundle.