I'm going to die.
Her mind realized this with a sort of numb certainty, but her body was stubborn. It fought almost as if it had a separate brain of its own. It struggled out of her backpack, so that the natural buoyancy of her ski jacket helped keep her head above water. It made her legs kick, trying to stand firm on the bottom.
No good. The creek was only five feet deep in the center, but that was still an inch higher than Gillian's head. She was too small, too weak, and she couldn't get any kind of control over where she was going.
And the cold was sapping her strength frighteningly fast. With every second her chances of surviving dropped.
It was as if the creek were a monster that hated her and would never let her go. It slammed her into rocks and swept her on before her hands could get hold of the cold, smooth surfaces. And in a few minutes she was going to be too weak to keep her face above water.
I have to grab something.
Her body was telling her that. It was her only chance.
There. Up ahead, on the left bank, a projecting spit with tree roots. She had to get to it. Kick. Kick.
She hit and was almost spun past it. But somehow, she was holding on. The roots were thicker than her arms, a huge tangle like slick, icy snakes.
Gillian thrust an arm through a natural loop of the roots, anchoring herself. Oh-yes; she could breathe now. But her body was still in the creek, being sucked away by the water.
She had to get out-but that was impossible. She just barely had the strength to hold on; her weakened,numb muscles could never pull her up the bank.
At that moment, she was filled with hatred- not for the creek, but for herself. Because she was little and weak and childish and it was going to kill her. She was going to die, and it was all happening right now, and it was real.
She could never really remember what happened next. Her mind let go and there was nothing but anger and the burning need to get higher. Her legs kicked and scrambled and some dim part of her knew that each impact against the rocks and roots should have hurt. But all that mattered was the desperation that was somehow, inch by inch, getting her numb, waterlogged body out of the creek.
And then she was out. She was lying on roots and snow. Her vision was dim; she was gasping, open-mouthed, for breath, but she was alive.
Gillian lay there for a long time, not really aware of the cold, her entire body echoing with relief.