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"Orson, wake up!" I slapped his face, and his eyes opened.

"Oh my," he mumbled, sitting up. "There’s three feet on the ground." Orson cracked his neck. "Roll down my window." A clump of snow fell onto Orson’s lap as the glass lowered into the door. "I see the cabin," he said.

"Where?"

"Two black specks on the horizon."

I squinted through the passenger window. "Are you sure that’s it?"

"There isn’t another structure within fifteen miles."

"How far is it?"

"A mile or two."

I reached into the backseat, grabbed an armful of clothes from the suitcases, and dropped them on the console between Orson and me. "I’m gonna let you out of the cuffs till we reach the cabin."

"We’re going now?" he asked, incredulous. "There’s no way we’ll make it."

"Orson, we can see it. We got less than a quarter of a tank of gas left. That’s not enough for another night of heat, and what if there’s another storm coming? We’re going."

"Any of these clothes waterproof?"

"No."

"Then forget it. That ice will saturate cotton, and it’ll take us several hours at least to reach the cabin in snow this deep. Ever heard of frostbite?"

"I’ll risk it. I’m not staying in this car another night with you."

I dug the handcuff key out of my pocket.

"I’m sorry I told you about Willard," he said. "Andy?"

"What?"

"You gonna forget again?"

"Don’t say another fucking word to me."

The snow came up just shy of my waist. I’d never walked in snow so deep that each step required you to expend the energy of a toddler climbing a staircase. I made Orson walk several yards ahead of me, and, just as he’d predicted, we hadn’t taken fifty awkward steps before the ice began to soak through the layers of my khakis and sweatpants. We’d gone a quarter of a mile when the initial icy burn set in above my knees, like a swarm of needles poking in and out of my raw red skin. It hurt to walk. It hurt to stand still, and by the time we’d hiked a mile through the snow, even my eyes burned from the sunny crystal glare. I wondered how I could possibly reach that minuscule black dot, which still seemed a fixture on the horizon.

Orson trudged on at his tireless gait, showing no sign of pain or fatigue. The burning in my legs had grown so unendurable that my forehead broke out into a cold sweat.

"Hold up!" I shouted, and Orson stopped. He was twenty feet ahead, bundled up in two T-shirts, a sweater, a sweatshirt, and a black leather jacket. His legs appeared bulky beneath the long johns, sweatpants, and jeans I’d given him from Walter’s suitcase.

"What’s wrong?" he asked.

"I just need a breather."

After a moment, I lifted my grocery-filled suitcase up over my head, and we continued on. My legs and feet turned numb shortly thereafter, so I battled only the stinging in my eyes. The sole relief came from closing my eyes, but I couldn’t shut them long enough to quell the pain while Orson walked uncuffed ahead of me.

With the cabin three football fields away, my legs were spectacularly numb. I kept thinking of that medical definition I’d found for snow blindness while doing research for Blue Murder — a sunburn directly on the cornea. It watered my eyes just to think of it, and I fixated on locking Orson into that spare bedroom and falling asleep under his fleece blanket in the soothing darkness of the cabin.

Orson glanced back at me, and I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed it before. He wore my sunglasses. Did you swipe them from the top of the dashboard while we dressed for this snow trek? I was going to scream at him to stop, but I thought, Fuck it, we’re almost there.

Even when squinting, I couldn’t adequately shield my eyes from the glare, so I let them close entirely, and it felt wonderful. I’m just going to shut them for a moment, I thought, moving clumsily and blindly now through the snow.

After six gargantuan steps, I opened my eyes to check on Orson.

He was gone.

Dropping the suitcase, I took the Glock out of my waistband and looked in every direction — nothing but smooth unending snow, which drifted