Maggie slowly stood and grunted in pain from her scraped knees and chin. Her limbs trembled as she walked away from the house, looking for shelter. The stores were all closed. The wind and snow cut at her exposed skin like razor blades. Her oversized sweatshirt was wet. The streets were empty. Even the bums had found refuge. Snow had buried the trash. Everything was white.
Maggie shivered more violently as she took labored steps, one at a time. Her eyes were watering, and her lips began to turn blue. She started to trip over her own feet and became increasingly clumsy as the minutes passed. Maggie realized, as if in a dream, that hypothermia was setting in. She’d read about it in one of the books that Dr. Barnes had given to her, and in one fleeting moment of clarity, Maggie knew she had to get out of the snowstorm quickly.
She turned down an alleyway that led to open field. In the distance, she could see a high mound of snow, and she stumbled toward it. As if an angel had guided her movements, Maggie found herself next to an abandoned car. The tires were gone and the rear passenger door was missing. She hobbled around to the opening, and with quivering breaths, climbed into the car. Then she shimmied into the front seat. The temperature inside the car wasn’t any warmer, but the broken-down vehicle gave her a safe haven from the wind and driving snow.
Maggie huddled, pulling her legs up under the large, wet sweatshirt. Her feet felt like two blocks of ice in the canvas sneakers, and her skin burned with pain instead of warmth. She could feel her body breaking down. Tears slid down her red, chapped cheeks. She curled up in a ball on the front seat, and with great relief, she thought, just a little more time and I can leave this life. She had reached her limit. She welcomed the hands of death to hold and comfort her.