Per Jacobson

That should be his priority, he knows. But he has to get out of the canyon. He has to get back to the place where he was separated from his family. He needs to know what has happened to them. Using that thought as the driving force, Adam makes another attempt at getting back on his feet. It triggers a burning pain in his side, possibly from a broken rib, and the kaleidoscope spins even faster, but he succeeds. He gets up, grabs one of the lower branches of a tree, and leans on it. The next tree is about fifteen feet away. It might as well have been a hundred. Because everything is tilting. Rocking from side to side. It's like trying to walk across a soaking wet ship's deck in a storm. The only bright side is that the slope is less steep here and that he is approaching the top. The finish line still feels like a mirage, though, as he has already had to walk very far through the canyon just to find a place where it was possible to get up without having to climb. And once up, he'll have to cover that distance one more time to get back to the place where he fell down. He coughs, and a spray of small red droplets rains down on the snow in front of his boots. "It doesn't matter," he whispers between chattering teeth. "Chloe, Abby, and Beth are all that matters.

He wakes to the sound of his own scream echoing through the canyon, and nothing has changed. Reality is still a nightmare, and he is still in the same spot, kneeling at the foot of a pine tree as if it were the statue of a deity he was praying to. Wrong. Something has changed. The shadows of the trees are stretching to the left now. It's late after- noon, maybe early evening. Oh God, how many hours has he lost? He puts one hand on the ground and grabs a cluster of the tree's thin branches with the other. Then he pulls. It costs another cry of pain, but he gets up—and to his relief, the kaleidoscope has slowed down. It's still spinning, but not enough to knock him off his feet. With his hands pressed against his thighs and his gaze fixed rigidly forward, he starts to walk. Every step is a struggle-not only against the knee-high piles of snow, but also against his own treacherous body, which pleads at him for another break. A rest that he knows he wouldn't be able to get up from. Even as he crosses his first milestone the edge of the canyon he doesn't allow himself to pause. He staggers on in the direction of the next tree that he can lean on. Always the next tree.

It came from everywhere and no-where. Perhaps somewhere deep in the woods. Perhaps right behind them. oh Brill interesting Horrified, Chloe seeks her dad's gaze, but his eyes bring no comfort. They're wide open, full of terror and disbelief. He hadn't expected an answer, and it's as if getting one caused something in his brain to short-circuit.* His lips begin to form a word that Chloe instinctively knows will be RUN! But before the sound reaches her ears, it's drowned out by another. A devastating bang from somewhere inside the forest. In its wake, Chloe sees her dad release his grip on the branch and press his hands against the gunshot wound in his thigh instead, while he senselessly staggers backward, straight toward the edge of the canyon. And then past it.