I sit in the dirt, against a tree, the bark scratching my bare back, and I stay curled up. A thin fog gathers around me, the air frigid. My fingers lose color and I feel as if these are the sensations of death. Everything is cold, so painfully and relentlessly cold. The feeling in my toes fade and I contemplate shifting again to stay alive. I can't be too far, I can't be off of pack land. I should go back but I'm scared that his father will grab me again, that he'll choke me and cut me as he did his wife.

'You didn't finish the diary, did you?'...