WILLOW DOESN’T WAIT FOR ME. She stalks ahead. Doesn’t look back.
Well, fuck that. She can stay angry for all I care.
I ignore her rigid shoulders, her angry eyes. I watch the world unfolding outside of our glass walls instead.
Outside of the glass tube, weak winter sunlight glances off yellow fields. An unbending road yawns into the east. Telephone poles jut up from the flat earth and chase the road to the horizon. And everywhere snow dusts the earth.
Though the world outside is desolate in its own right, it’s nowhere near as bleak as the boatman’s river. And yet, somehow, this is more oppressive.
It grows colder. A heavy blanket of white coats the horizon and the sky fades to grey as we walk. The sun disappears. We pass by signs of human life—hay bales, a farmhouse, another road—but still don’t see any actual people.
My breath hangs in the air now, leaves a vapour trail behind me. My windbreaker is poor protection from the elements, so I rub at the goosebumped flesh on my arms.
Our tunnel feels like a test tube. No exits interrupt its smooth walls. I can’t even find a seam in the glass. I look up and see a fine white powder begin to sprinkle the ceiling, falling from the grey sky.
My fingers, soon red with exposure, get shoved deep into my coat pockets, where they curl and uncurl in an attempt to grasp fleeting warmth.
I wish I’d woken up wearing better shoes.
I catch Willow watching me, her eyes narrowed, her fingers twisting the bouquet of crabgrass like a chicken’s neck.
And I snap. “Just throw that shit away! Christ!”
Willow averts her gaze, turns around and walks away. She carefully folds the grass and tucks it into one of her pockets.
Fucking crabgrass—treated like something precious. Ridiculous.
I stomp after her. I think about smashing the glass and making a run for it, but it’s so cold, and I’m not dressed for it. The wind rattles our glass tunnel, sweeping sheets of white over us. If I’m cold now, the last thing I want is to be caught out in a blizzard.
The flakes fall fat and heavy now. We’re soon iglooed within a dark hallway. The hallway occasionally brightens as a section of snow loses its purchase on the glass and slides away. More snowflakes are quick to take their place and pepper the panes with white.
Only the left-hand side of the tunnel stays a little clear, illuminating our path with a gloomy grey light. Not that there’s much to see, besides my foggy breath. The tunnel’s run straight since we left the boatman’s river.
The glass above me creaks under the weight of the snow. I wonder what it’s like to be buried alive. I suppose that’s one way out of this goddamn maze.
Eventually cold and fear numbs my anger. I’m too preoccupied breathing hot air into my hands and glancing up at the snow-caked ceiling to keep my aggression stoked. So when Willow tugs off her oversized sweater ahead of me, apparently not feeling the cold at all, I can only muster a weary goddamn ghosts.
Then she hands me the sweater, and I’m self-conscious enough to feel ashamed.