She crawled out from beneath Gus and viciously retightened the belt. Her hands shook, but they worked. Then, she looked up from the dirt, her eyes locking onto Merrick Sloan's.

"His name is Gus," she said, her voice dropping to a dead, terrifying calm. "And you're going to be sorry you did this."

For the first time, Merrick Sloan took a step backward. Nadine hauled Gus upright, and they left the pristine driveway behind.

The second mile was one Nadine would never be able to explain properly for the rest of her life. Her legs were finished. Her arms had stopped feeling like appendages somewhere back at the cattle gate. She moved Gus on something far beyond human strength—a primal reserve that only ignites when everything else has burned away.

She counted his breaths. Every ten steps, she stopped, lowered her ear to his mouth, listened for a wheeze of air, and then pushed forward.

Ten steps. Stop. Breathe. Again.

At some point, she began singing an old folk song her mother used to hum while washing dishes. She didn't sing because she thought Gus could hear her. She sang because the rhythm commanded her boots to keep stepping.

The sun disappeared behind the mountain ridge. The brutal Vermont cold climbed out of the soil. When Gus began shivering violently, Nadine remembered the Red Cross instructor warning about shock. She stripped off her own heavy winter coat and wrapped it tightly around his torso, continuing in only her thin, blood-soaked shirt sleeves. Steam rose faintly from her shoulders in the freezing twilight.

Halfway through the second mile, a shape materialized beside an old, crumbling stone wall.

It was a rusted garden cart with one flat tire, likely abandoned for years. Nadine let out a dry, cracked sob. She dragged the heavy iron cart into the middle of the dirt road. Getting Gus into the basin took every last ounce of leverage she possessed. His knees bent awkwardly over the rusted lip, and his heavy boots dragged over the side, but he was in.

Nadine grabbed the rusted handles. She pushed.

The flat tire resisted every rotation. The metal groaned in protest, cutting a deep, crooked rut through the earth. But it moved. It was still the hardest physical act of her life, but it was infinitely easier than carrying him.

So she pushed. She cried openly now, her tears freezing on her cheeks. There was nobody out there to see her break. She cried, and she pushed.

They breached the tree line just as the last purple bruises of twilight faded from the sky. Route 105 stretched out before them, a ribbon of cold, empty asphalt.

Nadine pushed the cart directly into the center of the southbound lane and collapsed against the handle. Five minutes later, the high beams of a logging truck swept around the bend. The massive vehicle hissed to a halt, its air brakes squealing in the quiet night. The driver took one look at the blood-covered girl and the giant man in the rusted cart and dove for his CB radio.

When the paramedics finally arrived, they worked with frantic, practiced efficiency. They loaded Gus onto a stretcher, hooking up IVs and checking the makeshift belt tourniquet.