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He slammed me against the wall, his breath hot and sour in my face. “Don’t you ever tell me how to handle your mother. She’s sick in the head, you know that. This is the only way she learns. You want to join her? Huh? You want to see what the dark does to cowards?”

I shook my head, eyes burning.

He hit me. Once, twice, open-handed, knuckles catching my cheekbone. The world spun, pain blooming white-hot behind my eyes.

I tried not to cry. I tried so hard.

He shoved me toward the back door. “Get the fuck out. Go cool off. Maybe you’ll learn some respect for the man who keeps this family together.”

He flung the door open and shoved me outside. The wind slapped me, stole the air from my lungs. The door slammed behind me, the lock clicked.

My breath came out in ragged clouds. I hugged myself, shivering, fingers numbing fast. The wintry cold wormed under my skin, into my bones.

I stumbled through the yard, back to the hole. My mother’s voice was louder now, rising and falling, a song with no melody.

“Milo? Milo, is that you? I hear them, they’re whispering, they’re crawling in my hair, they want to eat me, they want to drag me into the dirt, don’t let them—please, please, I’ll be good, I promise, I’ll be good⁠—”

She wasn’t talking to me. Not really. She was talking to the voices in her head, to the dark, to anything that would listen.

My hands were shaking, useless. I looked around, desperate for something, anything to get her out. The shovel was leaning against the shed, half-buried in old leaves. I grabbed it, mind racing. The rope from the old tire swing—frayed and rotting, but maybe enough.

I tied the rope to the metal ladder, the one my dad used when he worked on the roof, and dragged it to the edge of the hole. My muscles screamed, the cold biting deep, but I got it there, tipped it down until it scraped the dirt at the bottom.

“Mom,” I called, voice cracking. “Climb up. Please. I’ll help you. Just climb.”

She stared at the ladder like it was a snake, eyes huge, mouth working. She crawled toward it, muttering, “no, no, not safe, not safe, he’s waiting, they’re waiting, they want to hurt me, they want to⁠—”

“Please, mom, just climb. I’m here. It’s me. It’s Milo.” My voice cracked, and I struggled to get the words out even though my lips felt frozen.

She moved, jerky, and grabbed the ladder. Her fingers slipped twice, nails breaking as she tried to get a grip. She hauled herself up, inch by inch, feet bare and blue with cold.

When she reached the top, I reached down to help her out. She lunged—faster than I expected, wild and snarling, her hands clawing at my face.

“You’re not Milo! You’re not!” she screamed, eyes rolling, spit flying. “He sent you, he sent you to hurt me! You’re the dark, you’re the dark⁠—”

She scratched at my face, nails raking bloody lines down my cheek, her other hand grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking hard enough to make stars explode behind my eyes.

I tried to push her away, but she was strong, crazed, her whole body shaking. “Mom, it’s me! It’s me! Please, stop⁠—”

She bit me. I screamed, pain blooming. I shoved her, but she clung tighter, muttering, crying, sobbing, pleading with ghosts that weren’t there.

In a panic, I reached for the first thing I could grab—a rock, heavy and cold, lying by the edge of the hole. I slammed it into her side.

She howled, stumbling backward, arms flailing. Her foot caught on a root in the ground, and she went down hard. She went limp.

My breath came in gasps, clouds of white billowing around my head. Blood ran down my arm, hot on my cold skin. My hands shook so bad I almost dropped the rock.

I knelt beside her, pressing my fingers to her throat. Her pulse fluttered, weak but steady. She was breathing, shallow and ragged.

The cold pressed in from all sides, biting, gnawing, promising frostbite, promising death. The wind howled through the grass, rattling the bare branches above us.

I lay down next to her, curling my body around hers, trying to give her warmth, trying to take some for myself. My fingers were so numb, and the rock slipped from my hand, and thudded into the dirt.

Her hair tangled in my fingers, sticky with old blood and new. Her breath ghosted against my neck.

I stared up at the sky, black clouds lingering across the moon. The world felt endless, empty, cold as the grave. My father’s voice echoed in my head, the slap of his hand still burning on my face.

You’re weak. You can’t protect her. You can’t even protect yourself.