I don’t even know how to process this information, I’m so surprised, and it takes a moment for me to realize that this is it. I can’t go any farther. I stand in the darkness, the vibration of the air behind me bristling with the ever-constant presence of moans.

I’m sure the Unconsecrated aren’t that far behind me; I’ve barely been able to walk. All I know is that I have to get past this and continue on. I shove the machete into my belt and start to feel my way along the debris, pulling at smaller rocks, when I notice something.

I can hear a slight whistle of air. I lean into it—it feels warmer and smells fresh and clean and like the outside.

A ball of excitement coils in my stomach, energizing me. I run my hands over the cave-in, feeling for loose pieces and prying at them. Sharp corners bite my fingers but I don’t care anymore. I have to keep moving.

It’s agonizing, trying to find a weak spot and dig away at it, and when I’m finally able to clear an opening wide enough to reach my arm through, rubble collapses in on itself. Behind me I hear the Unconsecrated shuffle along the tracks, knowing that soon they’ll stumble around me in the darkness.

I take a shuddering breath and shove my shoulder against a large slab of concrete, trying to shift it away, but my feet slip over the ice-slicked ground and I fall.

It’s impossible in the darkness. I can’t see how the pieces all fit together. Frustration rages through me. I don’t want to take the time to build a fire but I’m afraid that’s my only option. I skitter back down the tunnel, hands sweeping for anything dry, but everything’s still crusted with ice. I press my fists against my temples, trying to figure out what I can burn.

My fingers brush the edge of the hat Catcher gave me and the matching scarf wrapped around my neck. I tear them off and crumple them into a ball by the wall of debris. Over and over again, I strike the flint above it. Sparks dance down but won’t catch.

The moans grow louder, swelling around me. My heart pounds so hard that it feels like the world is pulsing. Quickly, I use the machete to slice a chunk of what’s left of the hair from my head and drop it on top of the scarf.

Breath held, I strike the flint. It sparks but still nothing catches. I strike it again. Nothing. But the third time, one of the sparks falls into the nest of hair and blazes—the flame spreads to the edge of the scarf and ignites. I swallow back the ache of watching Catcher’s present to me burn, the soft bright colors dissolving into ash and smoke.