I made it! I'll be okay now.
It was only when she tried to get up that she realized how wrong she was.
When she tried to stand, her legs almost folded under her. Her muscles felt like jelly.
And ... it was cold. She was already exhausted and nearly frozen, and her soaking clothes felt as heavy as medieval armor. Her gloves were gone, lost in the creek. Her cap was gone. With every breath, she seemed to get colder, and suddenly she was racked with waves of violent shivers.
Find the road ... I have to get to the road. But which way is it?
She'd landed somewhere downstream-but where? How far away was the road now?
Doesn't matter . . . just walk away from the creek, Gillian thought slowly. It was difficult to think at all.
She felt stiff and clumsy and the shivering made it hard to climb over fallen trees and branches. Her red, swollen fingers couldn't close to get handholds.
I'm so cold-why can't I stop shivering?
Dimly, she knew that she was in serious trouble. If she didn't get to the road-soon-she wasn't going to survive. But it was more and more difficult to call up a sense of alarm. A strange sort of apathy was coming over her. The gnarled forest seemed like something from a fairy tale.
Stumbling . . . staggering. She had no idea where she was going. Just straight ahead. That was all she could see anyway, the next dark rock protruding from the snow, the next fallen branch to get over or around.
And then suddenly she was on her face. She'd fallen. It seemed to take immense effort to get up again.
It's these clothes . . . they're too heavy. I should take them off.
Again, dimly, she knew that this was wrong. Her brain was being affected; she was dazed with hypothermia. But the part of her that knew this was far away, separate from her. She fought to make her numbed ringers unzip her ski jacket.
Okay . . . it's off. I can walk better now. . . .