"I'm here," I say, walking back to her. "You okay?"
"My legs," she whispers. "They don't want to work."
"They don't have a choice," I say, but I grab her arm, pulling it over my shoulder. "Lean on me. We do this together."
We walk.
The snow in the drainage is soft and thigh-deep in places. Every step is a battle against the crust. We have to lift our legs high, marching like tin soldiers, the effort burning through our remaining energy reserves in minutes.
By the second mile, the cold begins to win. Sweat freezes against my skin, the minus-twenty air feeling like it's stripping the flesh from my bones. My fingers are numb inside my gloves. My nose feels like a block of wood attached to my face.
Aris stumbles on a hidden root, going down hard into the snow. She doesn't get up. She just lies there, face down in the powder.
"Aris!" I drop to my knees beside her, rolling her over. Her eyes are closed. "Aris, open your eyes."
"It's soft," she murmurs, her speech slurring. "Just for a minute, Nash. Just a minute."
Terror, colder than the wind, spikes in my chest. Hypothermia is seducing her.
"No," I growl, shaking her hard enough to rattle her teeth. "No sleeping. Wake up!"
I pull her up to a sitting position, slapping her cheeks lightly with my gloved hands. "Talk to me. Tell me something. Tell me … tell me about the brothers. Why are Rhys and Reid twins but not identical?"
She blinks, struggling to focus on my face. "What?"
"The twins," I demand, dragging her to her feet. "Talk to me. Keep your brain working."
"They're identical," she mumbles, her feet dragging as I pull her forward. "Just … chose different sides of the Force. You said it. Reid is … Han Solo. Reckless. Drives too fast. Shoots first."
"And Rhys?" I ask, forcing us over a fallen log.
"C-3PO," she whispers, her frozen lips barely moving. "Obsessed with odds. Hates adventure. But … with better hair."
I laugh, but it comes out as a sob.
"And you?" she manages.
"I'm Chewbacca," I say, gripping her hand tighter. "Hairy. Loud. Good with a bowcaster."
"Keep talking, Chewie," she says, focusing on the back of my parka. "Just keep talking."
We stumble through the timber. I'm taking most of her weight now. My own legs are trembling, my vision tunneling to the few feet of snow in front of us.
Just one more step, I tell myself. Then one more.
Somewhere around mile four, we stop. Not because we want to, but because a sound cuts through the wind.
Awoooooo.
It's faint and distant, but undeniable.
Aris stiffens against me. "Did you hear that?"
"Wind," I lie.
"No," she whispers. "Wolves. They're done eating."
"They're miles away," I say, though I know she's right. The pack has finished with the caribou. Now they're remembering the two that got away.
