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Stay under the Buick, run, stand your ground--what did it e was done My leg wasn’t going to heal on its own The first shot was a death sentence, so aste any more bullets?

I rode out the blizzard in the rear compartment of an Explorer Folded down the seat, made myself a cozy metal hut in which to watch the world turn white, unable to crack the pos to let in fresh air, so the SUV quickly filled up with the s wound

I used up all the pain pills from my stash in the first ten hours

Ate up the rest of my rations by the end of day one in the SUV

When I got thirsty, I popped the hatch a crack and scooped up handfuls of snow Left the hatch popped up to get so and my breath turned into blocks of ice in front of my eyes

By the afternoon of day two, the snoas three feet deep and e than a sarcophagus The days were only tatts brighter than the nights, and the nights were the negation of light--not dark, but lightlessness absolute So, I thought, this is how dead people see the world

I stopped worrying about why the Silencer had letof having two hearts, one in my chest and a s whether the snow stopped before my two hearts did

I didn’t exactly sleep I floated in that space in between, hugging Bear to my chest, Bear who kept his eyes open when I could not Bear, who kept Sa there forof proized to hi those two snowbound days I’m sorry, Sa to understand is there’s more than one kind of bullshit There’s the bullshit you know that you know; the bullshit you don’t know and know you don’t know; and the bullshit you just think you know but really don’t Making a promise in the ory So…sorry!

So sorry

One day later noaist-deep in a snowbank, Cassie the ice maiden, with a jaunty little cap made out of snow and frozen hair and ice-encrusted eyelashes, all war on her feet trying to keep a pro

So sorry, Sams, so sorry

No

33

THIS PLACE CAN’T BE HEAVEN It doesn’t have the right vibe

I’ness Dead space No sound Not even the sound ofThat’s number one on the "How do I know if I’m alive?" checklist

I know someone is here with me I don’t see him or hear him, touch or smell him, but I know he’s here I don’t kno I know he’s a he, but I do know, and he’s watching h the thick white fog, but somehow he’s always the same distance away It doesn’t freakIt doesn’t exactly co There’s the fog and un-breathing

But there’s no one there when the fog clears, and I find myself in a four-poster bed beneath three layers of quilts that s fades and is replaced by the war on the sfull-length mirror, and the slatted doors of a bedroom closet A plastic tube is attached toof clear fluid hanging from a metal hook

It takes a few s, the fact that I’ fact that I’ers find thick bandages wrapped around my knee I’d also like to feel my calf and toes, because there’s no sensation and I’ else below the big wad of bandages But I can’t reach that far without sitting up, and sitting up isn’t an option It see parts arethe upper half ofa floral-print cotton nightie And then I’htie? Beneath which, I am naked Which means, of course, that at so of the nightie I was completely naked, which a-confusing fact number two

I turn ht: , chair, table And there’s Bear, reclining on the pillow beside , not a care in the world

Where the hell are we, Bear?

The floorboards rattle as below me someone slams a door The kulump, kulump of heavy boots on bare wood Then silence A very heavy silence, if you don’t count ainst my ribs, which you probably should since it sounds as loud as one of Crisco’s sonic bo louder with each thunk

So up the stairs

I try to sit up Not a set about four inches off the pillow and that’s it Where’s er? Someone is just outside the door now, and I can’t move, and even if I could all I have is this dale the dude to death?

When you’re out of options, the best option is to do nothing Play dead The possuh slits for eyes I see a red plaid shirt, a wide brown belt, blue jeans A pair of large, strong hands and very nicely triernails I keep ht beside uess Then he turns and there’s his butt and then he turns again and his face lowers into view as he sits in the rocker by the mirror I can see his face, and I can see ood face, not the face of someone ants to hurt you If he wanted to hurt you, he wouldn’t have brought you here and stuck an IV in you to keep you hydrated, and the sheets feel nice and clean, and so what, he took your clothes and dressed you in this cotton nightie, what did you expect him to do? Your clothes were filthy, like you, only you’re not anymore, and your skin smells a little like lilacs, whichto keep ood job at it

Then the owner of the good face says, "I know you’re awake"

When I don’t say anything, he goes, "And I know you’re watching me, Cassie"

"How do you know my name?" I croak My throat feels like it’s lined with sandpaper I open upabout the face It’s good in a clean-cut, Clark Kent kind of way I’h the shoulders, nice arms, and those hands with the perfect cuticles Well, I tell myself, it could be worse You could have been rescued by so a spare tire the size of a monster truck’s who keeps his dead mother in the attic

"Driver’s license," he says He doesn’t get up He stays in the chair with his elbows resting on his knees and his head lowered, which strikeshands and i a warm, wet cloth over every inch of my body My completely naked body