Rex crawled forward and tried to grab hold of the reins. But it was hopeless. The horse was running so fast the sled was practically off the ground. It rocked back and forth like a tiny boat on a storm-tossed ocean. Every time the sled hit a bump, the wood cracked and groaned.

“We have to jump!” Rex screamed.

He was right. Any moment the sled was going to break apart. They could be trampled under the horse’s hooves or crushed by the sled.

“Go!” Rex cried.

Heart hammering, John struggled to his feet. He closed his eyes, held his breath, and threw himself off the side.

He landed hard, and rolled away as the metal sled rail sliced by him, inches from his head. John lay there, panting.

Finally, he sat up. To his relief, Sven was right next to him. And Rex and Peter were behind. They all crawled closer to each other and sat in a huddle.

Nobody had gotten hurt from the jump off the sled. But they were all shivering — hard. John’s hands and feet were completely numb. They couldn’t last out here for much longer.

Rex was looking all around.

“We’re near the Ricker farm,” he shouted.

The Rickers had a real wooden house, with three rooms.

“I’m pretty sure the house is right over there,” Rex shouted.

“Where?” Sven shouted back.

Rex looked around.

“Close!”

John’s heart sank.

Close.

That word meant nothing in a blizzard like this. The schoolhouse had been just a few feet away while John was staggering around the schoolyard. If Miss Ruell hadn’t come to rescue him, he’d be a frozen corpse by now, buried in the snow.

It would be almost impossible to find the Ricker house. It might as well be on the moon.

But they had two choices: Get moving or freeze to death right here. So when Rex shouted, “Come on!” they all struggled to their feet and followed.

They staggered through the wall of slashing snow and ice. The wind’s nonstop scream burrowed through John’s skull, deep into his brain. It was taunting John, hissing at him as he tried to push his way forward.

You’re weak.

You can’t make it.

You’re doomed!

That wind was right. John didn’t belong out here in Dakota. He’d always known it. And now he’d never escape.

John walked with his head down, crouched over like an old man, pushing himself through the wall of wind and ice and snow. He could make it only a few steps without falling. One of his friends would grab his arms and yank him back up. And then Rex would fall down, or Peter or Sven. And it would be John helping lift them up.

On and on they went. Battered by the maniac wind. Lashed by the ground-glass ice. Falling down. Standing up. Falling down. Standing up.

Colder, colder, colder.

And then came a savage gust. An ice-packed whirl so furious it knocked them all down at once.

And this time, not one of them could stand back up. Not even Rex.

They sat there, sinking deeper into the snow.

John felt the last of his body’s warmth seeping out of him, like blood leaking from a deep cut.

That screaming wind was right, John thought.

They were doomed.