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I’ve killed myself, I think. I’ve made my last mistake.
I look at my father. I’ve managed not to look past his shoulders this entire time, but now my eyes drift to his head. It’s still mostly covered in dirt. They dropped him facedown, and even with the dirt I can tell the back of his head is shaped wrong. The bullet punched through his skull and left a gaping hole.
I fight another wave of revulsion. The sight scrapes at me, like a knife dragged flat along my ribs, hollowing me out.
In that moment, I give up hope. I throw it into the hole with my father, and I finally understand it, deep in my bones.
I’m going to die.
No if. No unless.
Just certainty. I am going to die.
Those early days, I needed the unless. The plans. The future spooling out ahead of me, full of problems I could think my way through. But now, letting go of all of that, I can breathe again.
I don’t need to figure it all out, or else. There is no or else, no happy ending if I try hard enough. This only ends one way.
It’s like shrugging off a heavy backpack. It seems like giving up hope should mean despairing, but I feel light. Hope is a distraction. It makes you think about things that might happen to save you, instead of what’s right in front of you. It makes you freeze up because you’re so afraid of failing, because you don’t understand yet that it doesn’t matter.
In this moment, I am that empty girl, the girl who can do whatever she has to.
I smile. I feel focused. I don’t have to worry about the big stuff; I’m already dead, after all.
I can sit down. I can rest. I can eat the energy bar, and I do, savoring every bite. Bo creeps into the hole next to me, panting, and I give him two small bites from my fingers that vanish so quickly I might have imagined them.
When we’re done, I lick the wrapper and throw it away from me. I haven’t thrown anything away in weeks, paranoid that I’ll need it later.
That feels like freedom, too.
Knowing that I will die, winter doesn’t seem so overwhelming. It can’t do worse than kill me, can it?
Winter will bring cold. More hunger than ever. And it will bring Raph back.
I count the bullets with my fingertips, the cold metal numbing my skin. Yes, I decide. Yes, I am going to die; there is no unless. I will die and I will be with my father, be with my mother. I cannot make it to summer.
But maybe I can make it a little while longer.
Six bullets. Three men.
I don’t even have to be a very good shot.
I DON’T HAVE the energy to pull myself out of the hole. I huddle against the dirt and close my eyes. Just a moment, I think. I’ll rest just for a moment, and then I’ll be strong enough. I won’t even sleep.
And then I do.
A growl wakes me. In the haze of sleep, I think it must be Bo, but when I open my eyes, I know immediately that I’m wrong. Bo is beside me. He’s taut as a bowstring. The shape pacing at the edge of the hole is wrong. Rangier than Bo, a little bigger but not by much.
The first pale light of dawn licks its fur, making the edges golden and making the dog—wolf?—stark against the sky. It paces back and forth, but it never stops looking at me.
I press myself against the edge of the hole and make myself think small, still thoughts.
It growls again.
Wolves don’t attack people, I think. Haven’t I heard that? They’re afraid of humans. But this wolf-dog doesn’t look ready to run. He looks ready to attack.
The rifle is on the lip of the hole behind me. I reach up slowly, cautiously. The wolf-dog keeps up its pacing. My hand closes around the cold stock, and I tug it toward me.
The ammunition. Where is the ammunition?
