I haven’t trusted myself enough. I see that now. Nora has overpowered me because I’ve allowed her to do so. It’s almost undone me—but I remember now. She’s got me bound to her by the wrist again. I hate the loss of space, being this close to her, the wisps of her hair that brush against my face. I feel sick breathing in Nora’s exhaled air.

But it lets me notice more. She’s distracted, unraveling. Standing next to Nora, I hear that her breath is ragged. I need to stay steady. I ready myself. All this time I’ve misunderstood the phones as tools to use against her. I’ve thought of placing a call or sending a text, requesting help. But I understand now how I can use the phones to my advantage. Every time they chime or buzz, the two phones in Nora’s pocket offer a diversion. She cannot turn away from them.

This last time Nora checked her phone, it opened a new set of options—the wide sky, the cold woods, white pines on either side, as far as I can see. Nora won’t say what she read in the comments of our latest malevolent masterpiece. But it spooked her enough to bundle me up and out the cabin’s front door. To bypass the truck in the drive and trek outside without any clear direction.

“Nora, where are we going?” When she shakes her head, her temple grazes mine. She jerks in reaction and loosens her grip on my arm. I can afford to step back only a little. I take care to not pull away. Nora needs to believe I would stay.

I know her so well now. I’ve studied her the way she’s studied me. She says, “Just a walk. We’ve been so cooped up.” But Nora looks back and checks the phone every few seconds. I stop myself from following her gaze. The phone doesn’t matter to me anymore. It’s just a trapdoor that Nora might fall into. I work hard to keep up with her pace so that she doesn’t have to pull me along.

I have underestimated my own strength. It’s freezing outside. The ground crunches with frost under our feet and the leaves are slippery. With each movement, I feel hobbled by pain. My legs feel weak, my feet bleed. But I don’t need to show Nora all that extreme suffering.

I decide that these woods are just another stage. After all, I’ve trained for years to perform. My poor feet are already so calloused from toe shoes. Training for years. I hardly feel the gashes that bleed. For just a little while, I let myself forget, but my own legs remember working through agony. I lean on that now—that muscle memory.

Nora talks a big game about survival skills, but I know how soft she is. She lacks focus and discipline. Every time a phone chimes, I feel her tremble through the metal between us. There’s something she’s not telling me.

During recitals, it’s vital to ride the wave of adrenaline when it hits you. Otherwise, when the fear kicks in, your body reacts in ways that don’t serve your training. Your knees knock, your arms shiver. All that quivering interferes with the precise movements that the dance demands.

It’s freezing and I’m bleeding and probably going into shock in the near future. I won’t waste my adrenaline waiting for someone else to rescue me. When we reach a small clearing, I let myself tear up and whimper about my feet. “Nora, can you give me a sec?” I whimper pitifully. “My feet—I just want to check …” She bends to let me kneel down. And then.

I reach down and wrench the piece of glass from the side of my right sneaker. I moved it there as soon as I could and let Nora think it was still in my foot. It’s smooth and wet and hard to grip. I lunge at Nora with the force of a grand jeté. I clutch the glass shard and slash at her wrist. I had thought I might hesitate, but it turns out I miscalculated my own rage. I hear her yell my name and I tackle her down. We tangle on the ground and it’s easier than I expected to pin Nora beneath my knees. I’m not even panting.

She bucks and strains but really, she’s barely fighting me off. Nora looks up at me and then she does her worst. She dares to look hurt.

“I’m so tired of you,” she spits out. “I’ve given up years just listening to you talk about your life. No one has ever given up so much just to spend time with you, Shea.”

You don’t need to listen when someone else tells you who you are.

With one hand, I press the glass against Nora’s wrist. With the other, I snap the necklace off her neck. I move the sharpest edge to rest against the vein flickering at her throat. “You need to use this key to unlock the handcuffs,” I instruct her carefully. At some point, the snow started falling. While Nora unlocks me, I watch tiny flakes swirl around us both. My wrist feels weightless. We are both smeared with blood.

And then I am falling backward. I let myself drift for a split second and Nora shoves me off her. I roll to my feet to see her scrabble on her back along the ground. She’s reaching through the snow and dead leaves for something. Now that scares me. I track her movements and follow her hands, searching for a weapon or some element I missed. But then Nora staggers to her feet, clutching my phone in her hand.

Above us, the wind picks up in a swirling squall. My ears ache from the cold air. Snowflakes settle in Nora’s hair, even on her eyelashes. But it’s not a storm that gusts above us. We look up to see a helicopter circling. I need to fight for just a little while longer; help is already hovering.

It’s almost like we call a truce for a second. We stand and watch the aircraft duck and dip above the pine and spruce. Nora stares at the sky and then at me. She cries. I wonder if Helen has arrived back at the cabin. Or if it’s my mom and Delancey parked behind Sonny’s truck in the drive. If I could think of anything, I’d say something kind.

Nora holds up my phone and yells, “You wanted a live video, Shea! Hey there, followers, it’s me—Othergirl. Listen, it’s just about the end of this collaboration odyssey for Shea Davison and me. You’ve been refreshingly honest with your feedback, so I feel it’s only fair to drop a few truth bombs myself. Because I’m one of you. You love Shea. Me too. I’ve watched her every day for years.”

My rescuers may be near, but Nora won’t let go of this last chance to rack up views. She turns her back to me so that we’re both in the frame. All the ways I was brave today, but this freezes me. I stare up into the camera and wonder how many people are tuning in to see Nora demolishing me.

I drop the piece of glass. I don’t want people to see me that way.

“I thought we had so much in common—Shea Davison and me. But Shea’s mostly interested in what she can get for free, who she can use up on her climb to the top. I thought she was so courageous, caring for her depressed mom, dancing through her difficult feelings. Shea just wants attention. That’s why she’s so bitter now that her mom’s remarrying. She won’t get to use her mom’s depression as her own trademarked tragedy. What will Shea survive next? A very rich stepdad? Tune in tomorrow, followers!”

“No!” I find myself calling out, even though I know deep down there’s no point in arguing. “That’s not true.”

“Just look back yourselves. Review the tapes. Read the receipts. Watch all her posts again. Because I have, and now I get it. Shea Davison is self-centered and spoiled. She doesn’t care about you,” Nora rants. “Shea doesn’t even bother to read your comments. You all called me a kidnapper, but I had to hold her captive just so that she would notice me. We mean nothing to her. Shea is an empty shell of a human—a human turned internet commodity.”

Maybe Nora is right and that’s exactly what I am. Because that empty shell of myself fills up with so much anger and outrage. I cannot listen anymore. I can’t allow to her to keep speaking for everyone in the world to see. I rush toward Nora, straight at the camera, and knock her down into the snow. She fights me. We yank braids and brawl and spit out each other’s names. No chains. No glass. It’s just Nora and me and all the hurt and anger between us. We wrestle for control and I finally wrap my fingers around the prize. Then I pound her hand on the roots of a tree.

Finally, I’m able to pry Nora’s hands from my phone.

I hold the familiar weight of it in my hand without pressing any buttons. I don’t speak into the screen. I don’t call for help or text in code. I hold it up so Nora has one final look at the tiny amount of power she took from me. I smash the phone again and again on a flat white rock between us. I watch the case shatter and the parts inside fragment. “No!” Nora wails with grief, as if I’ve torn her dream to pieces. And I suppose I have, there in the cold woods.

It stuns me, how much pain the phone’s destruction brings. Nora screams and wails. I hear her cries and can’t help feeling sorry for all the hurt rising through her. She must have felt so alone. Then she found me on a tiny screen. Who am I to say that shouldn’t mean something? Nora throws back her head and howls. Then her mouth stays open, and another sound drowns out everything.

The helicopter thunders and whirs on its approach. It kicks up a swirl of wind and debris. I don’t even see it land because I shield my face with my hands.

I don’t see her stand and flee. In the chaos of rescue, I lose sight of her. The tall pines take her in. I fight to sit up. I crane my neck to see but the helicopter men gently push me down, tell me to stay down.

“You’re safe now,” they tell me. They use my name and claim that my mom is on her way. My head spins to see where Nora could be. The woods have swallowed her up. Snow settles over her footprints. The rescue team bandages my wrists. They peel off my bloody shoes and socks and fit my arm into a splint. They work over my body as if it is a thing that is not my own.

All I can think to say is, “I want to go home.”

By the time we start making our way back to the cabin, Nora is long gone. “You have to search for her.” I beg and plead. They ask me for her name, her age, identifying details. One of the rescuers speaks into her walkie-talkie. “Stand by for a description of the other girl.”

When I describe her, Nora sounds just like me.