The cold seeped into his bones immediately. Cole lifted his head. He pushed up with one arm to get his face out of the moisture, away from the tight hole he’d created. He wiggled back and forth, yelling at the pain and horror of it all, the frustration of not being able to move, of being wrapped in the freezing embrace.

His right arm came free. He looked down at it, saw how the limb ended in the middle of his bicep. Blood arced out in spurts, melting red canyons into the wall of white before him.

Cole fought to free his other hand from the clutches of the packed snow. He yelled and yanked it free, grabbed a handful of snow and pushed it against the wound. The raw, exposed nerves burned with pain beyond compare. He could hear himself screaming, could feel the white world around him growing dark. He struggled against the dying sensation, kicked at the brutality of it all, shook with rage at the approaching blackness squeezing in around him . . .

Cole collapsed forward. His eyes rolled up behind his lids, and his face fell into the cold and wet.

25

A cylindrical column of blood marched out of Molly’s arm and snaked through the twisted tube attached to the needle. Molly felt faint from watching it leave her body; she could feel her pulse shoving against her temples. She shook her head and pushed at the rag with her tongue, trying to find room to breathe. Beside her, the large man prepared a row of empty bags, hanging them one at a time from the side of her table.

One of the other men in the room told another joke, and everyone laughed. The man over Molly slapped her table with his hand, then wiped his eyes. The sight of his yellowish teeth, his mouth pulled back in a smile, his apron covered in blood—the banality of it all made her realize: the end of her would come right there on that table. No re-morse. No heroics. Nothing special. She just stepped into a dark alley, and was gone. Soon to be a few bags of votes vibrating with punch lines.

She laid her head back and concentrated on her heartbeat, on slowing down the thumps against her temples, if for no other reason than to be resistant. She breathed slowly through her nose and focused on the gradual rise and fall of her chest against the tight restraints—

Another quip from someone and the room rocked with more laughter.

Another bag was hung.

ѻѻѻѻ

“Aren’t you hurt?” Walter asked Cat as he followed her outside.

“I wish,” she said, speaking over her shoulder as Walter scrambled to catch up. “It’s a cinch to pick a fight in a new town, but then folks catch on. Soon as they reckon you’re looking for it, they ain’t so game. Eventually you gotta start paying ’em, or hanging out with sickos. Before long, you move on. You move on long enough, and you’re going in circles, know what I mean?” She stopped at the alley and peered down it, squinting at the darkness like it had done something wrong.