She opened her eyes and struggled to her feet, trying to stop her swaying, shaking legs. The wind through the cracks in the wall helped to clear her head. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, and tasted blood. God, that was close, she thought. Don’t you ever let that happen. She remembered something her father used to say. If you have to go, go down swinging.

She felt each board along the wall, testing them for weaknesses. The shed was made of new wood and it all felt solid. There were several loose knotholes, one down along the floor in a corner, and one next to the door. She worked at both of them, ripping at the wood until her fingernails were cracked and bleeding, but they would not come free. Not that freeing them would do any good anyway—I couldn’t very well squeeze through a twoinch opening. You might have lost a few pounds since yesterday, honey, but that just ain’t gonna cut it.

The boards were nailed to two-by-four framing. She pounded them with her fist where they were nailed together, hoping to loosen something. But they held tight, even after her fists were bruised and stinging. She needed something stronger to hit them with, a rock or piece of wood.

Finally, she turned to study the shelves on the far wall. There were four of them running the length of the small room, and three were bare. The fourth was just above her head, and she stood on tiptoe, trying to feel along it with her fingertips. They were numb, the ends dead and clumsy, and she fumbled through the search hardly able to feel the rough wood under her hands.

Her fingers felt some resistance along the wall on the left-hand side. She shoved at it, unable to tell what it might be, then jerked her hand back, suddenly afraid it was something that might cut her.

But it didn’t really matter, did it? In another few minutes she would be dead herself. She forced herself to reach back there, feel for the thing. In a second, she had it again, and tried to pick it up, but her fingers were too numb, like her hand had fallen asleep. She pushed at it, sliding it along the wood to the end where the shelf met the wall, then dragged it forward. It reached the edge, and fell with a thud to the ground.

It was a piece of heavy plastic, broken off of some garden tool. Maybe the handle of a spade.

Discouraged, she kicked at it, sent it spinning away from her underneath the bottom shelf. It was about as useful right now as a bottle of sunscreen. She felt tears stinging her eyes, threatening to overflow the lids. Don’t give up now, not yet.