The faraway part of Gillian's mind knew all this, but it didn't matter. She had reached her physical limits-she couldn't save herself now even if she could have thought of a plan.
Her hands weren't red anymore. They were blue-white. Her muscles were becoming rigid.
At least she no longer felt cold. There was only a vast sense of relief at not having to move. She was so tired. . . .
Her body had begun the process of dying.
White mist filled her mind. She had no sense of time passing. Her metabolism was slowing to a stop. She was becoming a creature of ice, no different from any stump or rock in the frozen wilderness.
I'm in trouble . . . somebody . . . somebody please . . .
Mom ...
Her last thought was, it's just like going to sleep.
And then, all at once, there was no rigidity, no discomfort. She felt light and calm and free-and she was floating up near the canopy of snowy boughs.
How wonderful to be warm again! Really warm, as if she were filled with sunshine. Gillian laughed in pleasure.
But where am I? Didn't something just happen-something bad?
On the ground below her there was a huddled figure. Gillian looked at it curiously.
A small girl. Almost hidden by her long pale hair, the strands already covered in fine ice. The girl's face was delicate. Pretty bone structure. But the skin was a terrible flat white-dead looking.
The eyes were shut, the lashes frosty. Underneath, Gillian knew somehow, the eyes were deep violet.
I get it. I remember. That's me.