The riverbank is slick with frozen mud. Trees stand skeletal, coated in rime. A thin layer of ice covers the water, broken near the edge where a body struggles. The air bites.
Chloe’s hands burned. Not cold, but heat, sharp and sudden, ripping through the skin where her fingers dug into Paul’s jacket. His shoulder, specifically. The fabric was heavy, waterlogged, dragging her down with a brutal, unyielding force. He was a dead weight. Not dead, she told herself. Couldn't be. Just… heavy.
She was on her knees, half-in, half-out of the frozen mud at the river's edge. Her boots, soaked through instantly, felt like lead anchors. The slush around them made a squishing sound, then a tiny crackle as she shifted. Each breath was a shallow gasp, a knife in her chest. Her lungs felt raw. She tasted river, metallic and cold, not from drinking it, but from the terror. It coated her tongue.
“Dad!” Her voice was a choked whisper. Too weak. Too thin against the wind that whipped off the water. It stole the sound, tossed it into the bare, black trees. She pulled again. A grunt tore from her throat. Her back muscles screamed. A sharp, searing pain shot up her right arm, from her wrist to her shoulder. Like something tore. She ignored it. Couldn't not pull.
His head bobbed. Just above the surface. His face was pale, slack. Eyes closed. His hair, usually neat, was plastered to his forehead, dark and wet. He looked old. So old. Older than fifty. A stranger. The cold had done that. Or something else. She didn’t know. Didn’t want to know. Just wanted him out.
Ice shards, sharp as broken glass, bit into her wrists. They stuck to the damp wool of her coat. Her gloves were useless, thin material, no grip. She felt the chill seep into her bones, but the burning in her muscles, the frantic throb of her heart, it was louder. It was everything. She focused on the buttons of his jacket, the rough texture of the wool, the way her own breath plumed white in the failing light. It was getting dark. Fast.
“Come on, Paul. Please.” She didn't realize she’d said his name like that. Paul. Not Dad. It slipped out, a desperate plea to an unresponsive lump. His weight was immense. Every time she got a little leverage, the mud beneath her gave way, or her boots slid on a slick patch of ice. The river pulled him back, a constant, silent tug-of-war. The water, so dark it seemed to swallow the dim winter light, swirled around his lower body, making him part of the river, not separate.
Her jaw ached, clamped tight. Her teeth ground together. She could feel the pulse hammering in her temples. A low thrum, deafening. She needed to think. But thinking was impossible. There was only the pulling. The strain. The cold. The fear that coiled in her gut, a knot tightening with every failed attempt. He wasn't helping. Not even a twitch. Not a single sound.
She tried to shift her grip, moving lower, aiming for his belt. Her fingers, stiff and clumsy, fumbled. Her nails, already broken, caught on something. A thread of his belt loop. She pulled. Harder this time. A sound, a sickening pop, came from her right shoulder. A jolt of white-hot pain. It was more than a pull. It was a tear. Her arm went slack for a second, useless. She cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound. Her grip on his jacket slipped. He slid an inch, then two. His head dipped closer to the water. Panic, raw and brutal, clawed up her throat.
“No! Stop it!” She scrambled, digging her left hand back into his coat, her right arm screaming in protest. It was barely functional. She couldn’t do this. Not alone. She had to get help. The realization hit her like a punch. She couldn’t lift him. She couldn't drag him. Not with her shoulder like this. Not with him like this. He was freezing.
His lips were slightly blue. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through his body. Hypothermia. She knew that word. Knew what it meant. She had to move. Had to go. She couldn't save him here.
Her eyes darted around. The river was wide. Empty. The bank, overgrown with frozen weeds and tangled branches, offered no shelter. No cars. No houses. Nothing. Just the brutal quiet of winter. The wind picked up, a high-pitched whine. It started to snow, light, dry flakes, stinging her cheeks.
“I’ll be back. I promise.” She whispered it against his cold, unresponsive ear. It felt like a lie. A terrible, hollow promise she couldn't keep. But she had to try. She had to. Her hand, still clamped onto his jacket, felt stuck. It was hard to let go. Like her fingers had frozen in place. She pried them off, one by one, each digit protesting, numb and clumsy.
He slumped back a little further into the water. His head still above, barely. His face looked peaceful now. Too peaceful. That was worse. Much worse. He looked like he was sleeping, but in the wrong place. The wrong, terrible, freezing place.
She pushed herself up. Her legs were shaky. Her right shoulder throbbed with a dull, insistent ache. Every movement sent a fresh wave of pain. She had to run. Where? Upriver? Downriver? She didn’t know. Just away from the water. Away from him. To find help. Any help. Her lungs burned, a raw, ragged ache, but the real pain was leaving him there, a dark stain on the frozen earth, waiting for her to come back.
“Her lungs burned, a raw, ragged ache, but the real pain was leaving him there, a dark stain on the frozen earth, waiting for her to come back.”