She pushes the blanket down and sits up. She’s sleeping in the clothes she ran in—the jeans stiff with dirt, the oversized sweater swallowing her frame. She shivers, wrapping her arms around herself.
“It’s freezing,” she whispers. “Is there coffee?”
“Water. Hydrate, then outside.”
“You’re a morning person. Of course you are.” She rubs her face, trying to wake up. “Give me five minutes.”
“You have two.”
I turn away. Grab a bottle of water from the case on the table. Crack the seal.
By the time I turn back, she’s standing. She looks wrecked—hair tangled, dark circles under her eyes—but she’s standing.
“Ready,” she says.
She doesn’t look ready. She looks like she’s about to break.
“Drink,” I say, tossing her the water.
She catches it against her chest. Drinks half the bottle in one go. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Okay. Let’s do this.”
I open the door.
The Blue Ridge morning hits us like a physical blow. The mist is thick, clinging to the pine trees, dampening sound. The ground is hard, frosted with dew. The world is gray and silent.
“Cold,” she says, her breath pluming white in the air.
“Good. Comfort makes you slow. Cold makes you move.”
I walk to a clearing about twenty yards from the cabin. The ground is relatively flat, covered in a carpet of dead pine needles.
“Center of the clearing,” I say.
She walks over. Her sneakers crunch on the frost. She hugs herself, shivering.
“Stop shaking,” I say.
“I can’t help it. It’s thirty degrees.”
“It’s adrenaline and cold. Control your breathing. Four count in. Four count out. Lower your heart rate.”
She closes her eyes. Inhales. Exhales.
“Better.” I step in. “First rule of survival: Distance is your friend. If someone is within arm’s reach, you are in the kill zone. Your priority is to create space.”
“Create space. Got it.”
“I’m going to grab your wrist. You pull away.”
I reach out. Lazy. Slow.
She yanks her hand back, but I’m quicker.
“Too slow,” I say. “If you pull back, you give me your center of gravity.”
“I thought I was supposed to create space.”
