“Promise?”

“Promise.” She slipped the .45 back into its holster, then grabbed a battery-operated lantern from the kitchen table, checked to make sure it worked, and handed it to Randy. “Okay, hon, here’s what we’re gonna have to do. You take your backpack and this lantern, go out the back door, and get on the trail like we talked about, okay? You keep walking and…here—” She pulled off her watch—a birthday gift from Eric and Sarah—and stuffed it in Randy’s pocket. “You keep track of the time. It’s almost a quarter of six in the morning, right? You keep walking until it’s six-thirty. If I haven’t caught up with you by then, you’ll—”

“—I use the radio, call the emergency people, then call 911 and don’t hang up.”

She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him. “That’s exactly right.” She turned him around and started pushing him toward the door. “Now scoot.”

She opened the back door and shoved him out onto the steps.

“I don’t want to leave you alone,” he said, his voice cracking.

“I’ll be fine, honey. Remember, if I haven’t caught up with you by six-thirty—”

He spun around and threw his arms around her waist. She touched the top of his head.

“You’re a good boy, Randy,” she said, kneeling down and taking hold of his shoulder so she could look him in the eyes. “Always remember that. What happened with Kylie was an accident, a terrible accident, but those things happen and it’s nobody’s fault. Cry if you want. But it won’t do you any good. It never does. So don’t bother trying to blame yourself. Promise me?”

“I promise.”

“Good. Now get going.”

He pulled away from her and ran toward the trail. Lucy was proud of him: he never once looked back at her.

“Good boy.”

Then she reached down and pulled out the serrated knife.

She knew that she should be frightened out of her mind, but an odd, almost empowering calm was taking hold of her. She limped outside and down the front steps and made her way toward Mr. Hands.

He stood there, shaking his head back and forth like a child pleading no, No, NO!

Lucy smiled at him, then closed her eyes, remembering, at last, the rest of the passage from Shakespeare:

Then I have reason to be fond of grief.

Fare you well. Had you such a loss as I,

I could give better comfort than you do.

Mr. Hands made a deep, soul-sick sound from somewhere deep in his core.

Lucy opened her eyes. “I know, and I’m sorry, but…but thank you.”

She plunged the knife deep into her stomach, then collapsed on the ground, watching the snow turn red around her.

“This is the only way now,” she croaked as Mr. Hands, doubled over with pain, dragged himself beside her.

Lucy stared into his face and tried to smile but only coughed up a spattering of blood and mucus. “I hope it doesn’t take us too long to die.”