When the tree line broke, Woodward House loomed into view. Clark, who had until now been walking as fast as his legs would allow, pulled into a dead sprint. Kate’s hold on his shoulders had loosened. He was losing her to unconsciousness. Terror replaced his blood. The color evaporated from his world. He pressed onward into the house and upstairs to the first bathroom he could find. Shoving open the door with his shoulder, he entered and placed Kate on the counter, letting her body slacken against the wall. Her eyes slipped closed. They no longer fluttered. Clark fought the urge to vomit.

“Hey, hey, I need you to listen to me.” He tapped her hand, perhaps a little harder than necessary. It twitched, a good response. As he continued to speak, Clark spun the bathtub faucet. A small chain—part of the ancient plumbing system in this house—needed to be pulled for the shower, but as the water heated up, Clark reached for the nearest towel and tried to figure out what to do next as he frantically rubbed the barely-conscious woman dry. He couldn’t leave Kate in the shower alone. She’d drown. Waiting for Michael the medic would take too long. Kate needed warmth now.

With great care, Clark lifted Kate off of the counter, carried her to the steaming shower, and stepped inside with her, fully clothed.

The shower, like the rest of the house, showed its age. Glass and gold couldn’t have been more out of fashion; the pipes groaned from the sudden use of the hot water. Clark only saw the woman in his arms. He placed her on her own two feet, but held her close, almost as if they were dancing. The hot water washed over them in a steaming, restorative rain storm. Please be all right, he silently begged her. Please, please, please be all right. He counted her heartbeats against his chest, marking each one as a victory, a sign she could make it through this.

Slowly, Kate’s chattering teeth stilled. Her body ceased its convulsions. She looked up at Clark with an expression of half-awake awe, her heart hammering against his chest.

“You…” She trailed off. “You…”

Clark wanted to pull the rest of the words from her mind. What was she trying to say? Did she hate him for letting her fall down through the ice or love him for bringing her back or despise him for standing in the shower with her, even if they were fully clothed?

He would never find out. The bathroom door slammed open, revealing a red-faced Emily. Steam practically shot out of her ears, though Michael followed behind with level-headed stoicism.

“You!” Emily’s voice ricocheted off the tiled bathroom walls. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m trying to help her.”

“Help her? I think you’ve done enough. Now, go.”