The surprise of it throws him off and when he springs up, it’s with a backhand. More force than she was expecting: there’s the scrape of wood on wood as the table behind her skitters and Maeve hits the floor.

There’s a breath, her hand to her face. He lets his arm fall.

“Maeve—”

“No—”

She’s already pushing herself back along the floor, trying to get away.

“Wait. Wait. I’m sorry—” Sim drops to his knees. “Maeve. That is not me. That’s not what I’m like. I am so sorry. We’ve all been through a lot. Look at me.”

He’s crawling toward her. He’s still trying to get close. Maeve glances over her shoulder, trying to keep from getting trapped against a wall. She’s aiming for the lobby’s back door.

“Just stay with me here. Okay? Stay with me.”

She scrambles to her feet, backs farther away.

“No—”

But he’s on his knees in front of her and just keeps coming.

“I need some space,” she says. She’s closer to the back door with every step. “Don’t worry about it. Just—now we’re even,” she says. “Right?”

Maeve can feel herself start to shake. The tremor exploding inside her, a freight train trapped at her chest. Everything moving at once.

Outside it’s still dark. She can make it to the studio cabin in fifteen minutes, even in deep snow. At worst, in bad weather and against the wind, twenty. But if she tries to run, will he follow?

She still has her coat on—that’s how cold it is indoors—and she roots around inside the deep pockets. The two flares are there, and the cold can of bear spray. There’s the hatchet with its smooth blade, the box of matches, the roll of duct tape. And down under that, what she needs most: the studio key. She scoops it smoothly into her palm, the bear claw hooked neatly into the key ring. She pauses, the tip of it pricking at her own thumb. Anna’s claw.

Her lucky claw.

“Maeve, I want to start this over—”

He’s on his feet again. He’s so much taller than she is, and his stride is so long.

“Maeve—”

She’s almost got her hand on the door. He moves toward her, and his foot slides against something on the floor. Maeve looks down, squinting. It’s some little bit of paper.

She slides a hand inside her coat, to her breast pocket. The photo is gone. It’s somehow fallen out in the moment her body hit the ground. Her breath catches.

He moves just a single step back, but it’s enough for him to see what she wants. He bends and peels the photo strip off the floor. Looks down at the images, then back at her.

“Yours?”

She knows she should go, start running, but somehow she can’t. Not without that photo. She can’t leave them behind.

“Maeve.”

He’s holding it close, like a lure.