What? I’m a great teacher. So maybe meeting the kids where they live makes it impossible for me to have normal adult conversations on my days off. Maybe it occasionally gets me to stream shows on YouTube and questionable websites because they still aren’t available in this country but…yeah, there’s noway to put a good spin on that. It’s just sad. And potentially criminal.
I wipe what feels like moisture on my cheek with my fingers, noticing the blood soaking into my useless glove with a sigh. “Terrific. Keep moving, Win.”
As I walk carefully through the snow, I realize that my ankle isn’t hurting anymore. In fact, I can barely feel it at all. Or my toes for that matter. I’m sure that’s normal.
This is fine.
This is ridiculous. Maybe my brain will stop taunting me with social media memes at my funeral. Then Bex can forgive me posthumously for failing this mission, Connor can wear the hideous light-up tie I bought him for our high school graduation, and my executor can… Yeah, no, he’s never going to okay my cemetery flash mob idea. Valentine “Val” Caravalho is not a fan of flash mobs.
“You’re not going to d-die,” I snarl, teeth chattering as I trudge through the ankle-deep snow. “Distract y-yourself. Sing something.”
That isn’t a bad idea. It might scare away those imaginary bears.
A second later, I see what might be a glint of light through the snowfall and trees in the distance. A window? And do I smell smoke? Have I accidentally found my way back to humanity and coffee and fireplaces, or am I hallucinating?
Sing something.
If anyone is outside to hear it, my voice is definitely loud enough to break through the weather’s white noise. I might look like a starving folk singer, but my vocal cords are all sold-out amphitheater. The shock value of that fact has gotten me laid on more than one occasion. It almost worked again a few months ago.
I need to stop thinking about him.
I sing something from a guy I started following on TikTok right after the pandemic. (The duet chains and group sings are still addicting, and watching them daily is probably why my phone always needs to be charged in the first place.) The dark, sexy version of “Row Your Boat” by Sail North—the singer who got famous singing sea shanties—makes me feel like an ice pirate on a quest and gives me the temporary burst of energy I need to pick up the pace and get to safety.
As I stumble over hidden obstacles under the now-calf high drifts, belting out lyrics about brigands needing kingdoms, I feel my confidence rise—and my weak ankle promptly rolls out from under me. I land face first in the snow.
My face is taking a lot of damage today. Oh, and I can feel my ankle again, so fuck my life.
“Damn sailors with their catchy murder tunes,” I gasp, trying to hold back tears while clutching ineffectually at my leg. I’m so tired.
“Singer? Can you hear me?”
Hallelujah. Unless bears can talk or there’s a blizzard-loving serial killer on the loose, I might be saved.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Hello?”I groan as I sit up and look around groggily, pushing my now-stiff hair out of my eyes. When did I lose my hat? “I’m here! I’m over here and I need help!”
After my outdoor concert, what emerges is more of a raw, rattling croak than a shout.
“On my way.” The response echoes in the air around me. I have no idea what direction it’s coming from. “Keep singing. Or talk to me.”
The voice is deep and male, and it might have rung my city-dweller alarms if I weren’t too relieved to care. It’s not like I can run away, and there’s a chance he’ll take me back to his lair and warm me up before ordering me to put the lotion on my skin.
He's not a serial killer, you idiot.
“I’m talking.” I struggle to my feet, leaning heavily on yet another tree. It’s a good thing there are so many around, since my body doesn’t feel like standing at the moment. Even my good leg is shaking. I search for a shape moving through the gloom, but the snow is falling harder than it was before. “If you can see anything, I’m the one in red, wearing boots that weren’t made for walking.”
“What were they made for?”
He must be close. His voice is strong and smooth and all manner of hot.
Hot?
Sure. What could be hotter than not talking to myself anymore?
“For drinking hot toddies in front of a roaring fire while looking adorable,” I answer punchily. “Connor told me to bring hiking boots, but I wore these instead because I never hike and wasn’t planning to start this weekend. I twisted my ankle.”
I close my eyes and imagine a toasty fire and a toddy. Why am I so exhausted? “I should lie down.”
