She rose slowly and shuffled toward the bathroom—leaving the door open so she could lean back from the sink to see the child—then she took a Dixie cup from the dispenser on the wall beside the sink, pulled a bottle of water from one of the bags, and found the codeine tablets. Part of her wondered if taking them would be a good idea—they tended to make her feel woozy and shiny—but then realized that if the thing chasing after them did manage to find them, she’d be no good to the child if she were half-blinded with the agony of a migraine.

Six of one, a half-dozen of the other…damned if you do, damned if you don’t…

Having exhausted her repertoire of early morning clichés, she thought, To hell with it, and took two of the tablets.

Gripping the edge of the sink, she leaned forward, eyes closed, and pressed her forehead against the mirror, taking several deep breaths until her heart-rate steadied and her arms and legs stopped trembling. When she was certain she had herself under control, she released a slow, even breath, and opened her eyes to see herself staring back at her.

Jesus, you look like hell.

She splashed some cold water on her face, dried off with a towel, and then turned off the bathroom light.

She checked on the child; sleeping peacefully. God, did you ever sleep so soundly as you did before you turned thirteen? If there were ever to be invented such a thing as a time machine, she’d use it to go back and not only repair the wrongs of the past, but to be thirteen again so she could get a good night’s sleep.

She wandered over to the front window and stood there, staring out into the night. The moon was full and made the snow shimmer. Light moved like glissandos over the treetops in the distance as the wind caused them to sway side to side, sometimes forward, then backward, just once, and—

—and then she saw him. It.

He was so still among the towering trees and swirling snow that he’d looked like part of the scenery.

Mr. Hands just stood there, gigantic, cold, motionless, merciless, staring with his black-pit eyes.

She moved quickly and quietly, grabbing up the Mossberg, a knife, three road flares, and her coat, disabling the alarm, and marching out onto the porch, pumping a round into the shotgun’s chamber.

Mr. Hands did not move, only continued staring dispassionately, an entomologist observing the behavior of an insect under glass.

She looked behind into the cabin only once—I won’t let him harm you—then stepped off the porch, down the steps, and crossed the distance between herself and the thing that had been pursuing them for what seemed years.

She raised the shotgun and thought about firing but that would wake the child and the last thing she wanted right now was for the child to awaken and be alone in the dark in a strange place.