19: THE ICE

HANNA PLUNGED INTO the icy water, sinking below the surface. As she floated up, she tried to gasp for air, but the cold had stolen her breath. It was like her lungs had given up. The sudden shock threw her heart into a frenzy, pounding against the inside her chest. Her arms flailed over her head as she searched for something stable to grab.

Her hand found the edge of the ice. She grasped it tight, refusing to let go, resisting the pain of the cold on her skin. She stopped thrashing and focused on her breath, relaxing her throat and letting the air crawl back into her lungs.

At first, her breaths were short and shallow, but they grew as she maintained her composure. She tried to yell, hoping someone nearby would help, but when she opened her mouth, all that came out was a soft whimper. The extreme cold had stolen her voice.

Every muscle in her body was tense, tightening from the extreme temperature. Her hands shook. Her teeth chattered. The cold seeped through her flesh and burrowed into the core of her bones. Her toes were numb, and her fingers were turning ghost white.

Focus, she thought to herself, fighting off the lightheadedness. If there was ever a time to stay calm, it was now.

She forced a deep breath inward and tried to hoist herself out of the water. Her arms were weak, and there was nowhere to grip. She swiped at the smooth ice, making no progress and falling back into the water. A second attempt yielded similar results. She needed a handhold. Something to grab while she pulled herself up.

That’s when she remembered the boxcutter in her pocket. She was reluctant to submerge her hand back underwater, but retrieving the boxcutter was the difference between life and death.

Shivering at magnitudes out of her control, she lowered her hand beneath the surface and fumbled for her pocket. With numbness overtaking her fingers, the task was almost impossible, but after multiple attempts, she managed to find her pocket.

She stuffed her hand inside and closed her grip, praying the boxcutter was still there and had not fallen out. As she raised her hand out of the water, the boxcutter slipped out of her fingers and tumbled onto the ice, sliding just out of reach.

She threw her head back in frustration, clenching her teeth and holding back tears. The boxcutter was her only chance to survive. She needed to get it back. Pressing her body against the edge of the ice, she stretched her arm as far as she could, only able to nudge the handle with the tip of her finger.

Exhausted, she backed away from the edge to rest. Her frustration was morphing into anger, but she knew that letting anger take over would likely get her killed.

Again, she pulled herself close to the edge, this time kicking her feet outward as they floated horizontally behind her. With her body at this new angle, she reached with her arm and plopped her hand on top of the knife.

Her eyes widened, and her focus grew. She pulled the metal tool toward her and held it in front of her face. With her trembling hand, she fumbled with the slider to push out the blade. When the blade was out, she could see her ghostly face in the reflection. Her skin had lost all color, and droplets of ice were frozen to her cheeks.

She turned the knife around, facing the blade downward, and slammed it into the ice. The sturdy blade punctured the surface and held firm. She kicked out her legs again until they were floating behind her, and then pulled on the boxcutter with both arms.

With half of her body out of the water, she lifted her face away from the ice by propping her elbows down. The excess water drained from her shirt, shedding the extra weight. She plucked the blade out of the ice and reached forward to plunge it back down. Again, she pulled until her feet were out of the water.

She rolled over and sprawled out on the ice, staring up at the sky as she heaved for air. She turned her head to find the man she was chasing, now only a distant figure. He had reached the other side of the river and was climbing onto land with the storage server still tucked under his arm. He had gotten away.

But she was alive. She had not drowned or frozen to death, but lying on the ice would do her no good. She needed to get somewhere warm. Her head was spinning as she sat up. She swayed back and forth, taking short, shallow breaths and closing her eyes to focus.

She slipped the boxcutter back in her pocket and tried to stand, but as she planted her feet, she heard the terrifying sound of more cracking ice. She froze in her crouched position, studying the ice around her and deciding to lower herself back down.

After what she had just endured, she was not ready to experience it again. Walking was not an option. The ice was too unstable. To avoid another incident, she would need to crawl.

She lowered onto her stomach, distributing her weight as evenly as possible. In a prone position, she extended her right arm and left leg, planting them both on the ground and pushing herself forward.

She crawled in this fashion, alternating her arms and legs and inching toward the land. Her elbows pressed into the hard, cold surface, chilling her stiff joints and spreading pain throughout her forearms.

The slow crawl stretched for an eternity, seeming to never end. Every time she glanced up, the riverbank was just as far as it had been before. And whenever she thought she couldn’t possibly get colder, a chilling shiver would shoot down her back. The cold air nipped at the wound on her cheek, which had swollen to the size of an apple.

With her head hung low, and after what seemed like hours of hopeless crawling, the top of her head nudged the metal post of a guardrail.

Drained of all energy, she struggled to grab the top of the rail. Her body ached with throbbing pain as she lifted herself over the barrier and tumbled onto the road. At first, she was relieved to feel anything other than ice touch her skin.

As the smell of asphalt filled her nostrils, she suddenly grew aware of her surroundings. She was in the middle of the road. A car could hit her at any moment. In an exhausted panic, she forced herself up and hobbled across the street to the sidewalk. From the safety of the curb, she peered down the block. There were no cars. The streets were closed because of the festival.

The festival. That’s where she needed to go. That’s where there were people to help her. The square was only one block away, but her feet had lost all feeling. It almost felt like they had disappeared from her body, and she was hovering above the ground. It was a miracle she had even made it onto the sidewalk. Doubting her ability to walk, she considered crawling, but there was now a healthy heap of snow, and she refused to bury her arms in more ice.

She took a step, holding the wall to stabilize her wobbling legs. And then another step. And a third. She waddled down the sidewalk, leaning against the building whenever she felt like she would fall. The echo of performers hitting their drums was faint, but reassuring. All she had to do was follow the sound, and it would lead her to the festival.

She closed her eyes and let the drums guide her, stumbling into each step and sliding her hand along the wall. The noise grew from a quiet patter to a full arrangement. The change in volume was gradual, but distinct. Growing louder and louder. And then without warning, it stopped.

The last drumbeat faded away, leaving only the whistle of the wind. No drums. No voices. Nothing. Hanna opened her eyes, darting them back and forth. The crowd of festival goers had stopped what they were doing and turned to face Hanna. They all stared with looks of concern.

A nearby woman approached her. “Are you okay, hun? Did someone hit you?” She pointed at Hanna’s cheek.

Hanna touched her hand to her cheek, wincing from the sting that shot through her face. She looked at her finger to see if there was blood. “The bleeding stopped,” she whispered to herself, ignoring the question.

The woman moved closer. “Did you see who did this to you?”

Hanna shook her head. “No one did this to me. I fell.” As she said this, the world spun around her. She wobbled from side to side and stumbled over.

The woman leapt forward to catch her, propping Hanna’s arm on her shoulder, and wrapping her own arm around Hanna’s back. “Careful, hun. You don’t want to fall again. One cut to your face is enough.” Other people gathered, both curious and concerned about the situation. The woman held her hand in front of Hanna’s face. “Can you tell me how many fingers I’m holding up?”

Hanna squinted, trying to bring her blurred vision into focus. “Three?”

The woman nodded. “Good. Do you remember where you fell?”

Hanna extended her arm in the direction she believed to be the water, but she had lost all sense of orientation. For all she knew, she was pointing at the ground. “The river,” she muttered, hoping her words were more coherent than her motor skills. “I fell in the river.”

The woman grabbed Hanna’s hand. “Christ, you’re an icicle.” She turned around to the other spectators. “Get the paramedics. This woman needs immediate medical attention.” She turned back to Hanna. “What were you doing on the river? You should know it’s not safe to walk on the ice.”

Forming words grew more difficult. “He got away,” she managed to drool out.

“Who are you talking about, hun? Who got away?”

The woman’s voice devolved into muffled nonsense as the world faded to black. Before Hanna could answer the question, she slipped into total darkness.