Blood rushes in her head, magnified by her panic and the water, louder than anything she’s ever heard. Her lungs scream with the need to expand; she won’t be able to stop herself from breathing in a mouthful of water. Pressure throbs behind her eyes, aching as she fights to keep her mouth closed. She can’t, she can’t let him win.

Jamieson hauls her up, dripping and spluttering. Wendy coughs, her body shaking, her jaw clenched against the cold. She braces herself, but Jamieson doesn’t push her under again. He holds her—his hands on her shoulders, showing her how easily he can keep her in place. It’s almost worse, the tension of his arms, the tension of her body, waiting for him to shove her down. She kicks out, but her heels only slip, finding no purchase on the bottom of the tub. She can’t stand up, she can’t escape. She can’t do anything. And just like that, Jamieson has won.

Wendy stops fighting. She wishes she could stop shaking too, but that’s beyond her control. Tears stream beneath the blindfold, and she hates herself. Their heat does nothing to warm her; she barely feels them. Slowly, she pulls her legs up, wrapping her arms around them, trying to preserve heat, make herself small.

She isn’t certain when the pressure lifts from her shoulders, or how long it’s gone before she realizes it’s no longer there. She grips the sides of the tub, her fingers numb and clumsy. She expects Jamieson to smack them down; they might even shatter, brittle with the cold. But the blow doesn’t come.

It takes multiple tries to work her shaking fingers and get the blindfold undone. Water has tightened the fabric, making the knot even more stubborn. When she finally pulls it off, ripping out several strands of hair as she does, she’s alone. Her knee is already tender from hitting the tree, and she strikes it against the side of the tub, slipping as she climbs out. Her legs betray her and she falls, hitting the tiled floor hard. Her breath leaves her in a whine and she curls onto her side, letting misery wash through her for several moment before she even tries to move again.

The drab gray cloth of her dress clings to her skin, weighing her down. Wendy crawls to the door, gets her fingers around the handle. Locked. She rattles it. Pounds on the wood with hands still aching with the cold. Blood stands out beneath her chilled-white skin. She screams, but plenty of people scream in St. Bernadette’s. No one will come for her. She’s trapped until Jamieson chooses to unlock the door. All around her is tile and metal and unforgiving blank walls. There’s nowhere to escape the cold.