The Predator

People die when they stop fighting—when they surrender to the cold, the pain, the fucking void. I used to think that was a lie. Some stale motivational nonsense. Turns out, I was wrong. Surrender is a choice, and my little bird nearly made it.

The woman who killed me with her gaze now lay on the bed, her breaths uneven beneath the three thick blankets I’d draped over her. Her skin was paler, her lips cracked, and her once-bright eyes were now hidden behind fluttering lids. She was burning with fever, despite her body’s icy tremors.

Fuck. One second late, and she would’ve froze to death.

I dragged...