Róża pulls Natan’s fur hat over her ears and steps into the muck boots that stand like sentries at the corner of the barn. She layers a spare barn coat over her own woolen one and stuffs its oversize pockets with the few possessions she has: the card fold of photographs, her mother’s frosting tip, Natan’s compass and broken watch, a mess of yarn and thread. The card with the address of Siostry Felicjanki printed on it, she hides temporarily inside the booted cuff of her pant leg. She hates to take more, but she grabs a canteen and matches, Henryk’s root clippers, a trowel, and two blunt knives that she stuffs into the spare socks so they won’t chink. Finally, she reaches for a small pot she can use to make a fire in. She places Krystyna’s food package inside and loops its handle over her arm.

Gripping the compass, she pushes open the barn door. A gust of freezing wind tears at her skin. Along the lane, thin scarves of smoke drift from the chimneys of dark houses. Róża blinks at the snow’s moonlit reflection, wary of her eyes. Is someone afoot or standing by a window, looking out? There’s been a swirl of action here tonight. She raises the collars of her double coats to shield her face. Like everything from the barn, the coats smell of damp hay and Henryk. She walks briskly, then breaks into a run, away from the village, in the direction of the woods.

With every step, Róża fights the sting in her thighs, the roiling bile in her stomach, the biting cold at her nose and cheeks and fingertips. She pushes on despite the pain and atrophy, despite her acute desire to stop and rest. She tries to outrun her loss.

When Maryla had stepped into the barn, all Róża wanted was to call off the plan, to send Maryla away and find a different hiding place for her and Shira, together. But it was no good, the two of them on the run in freezing temperatures with no promise of shelter. She had to get Shira to safety. So she’d struggled to keep steady, to meet Shira’s gaze, but then Shira put out her hands—for Róża to fold her large fingers over Shira’s small ones, their good-night ritual—and when that didn’t work, Shira grasped Róża’s arms, dug in her nails.

“Oh, Shira—”

The imprint of Shira’s fingers still pressed upon her arms; the shrill tone of Shira’s voice rang on in her ears. Shira had clung to her and Róża had pried her off. Finger by tiny finger. Róża felt flayed, a layer of her own self ripped and taken—