Early February, the coldest day of the year so far.
The sky's overcast, a dull leaden gray. The snow's creaky underfoot, the cold eating its way up from the ground to Becky's feet, even through her stout boots and three pairs of woolen stockings.
She's decided to swing by the library on the way home from school, where that nice Mrs. Krebsbach ("Do call me Eudora, dear.") has some books on hold.
Not for the first time Becky wonders why her uncle never moved out of Minnesota after the divorce. To someplace warmer, milder, gentler. The Gulf Coast of Texas maybe, or even the West Coast.
Yeah, Southern California sounds real nice on a day like this. Hollywood, endless warmth and sunshine. She imagines the three of them- herself, Mac and Jack- living in a house in Malibu overlooking the ocean, someday when they've got enough money to do whatever they want.
What was that song, that she used to hear on the record player at home all the time? About California dreaming? Sounds real nice, about now: warmth and palm trees, sparking blue ocean...
As she rounds a corner with her thoughts miles away she finds Darryl, Lori and their gang waiting for her. Not a friendly face in the bunch.
Before she can think to flee they grab for her, trying to pinion her arms and legs.
She's befuddled for only a second before she starts striking back in the way Jack's been teaching her on the sly, a no-holds-barred approach picked up during his stints in prison. Kicking, pulling hair and biting anywhere she can, muffled cries of pain attesting to the fact she's succeeding.
They pause for a second, and she takes advantage to bolt through a gap between two of the assailants. Almost manages a clean escape, until a flying tackle from behind sends her headfirst into a pile of dirty snow.
"Oh, poor little Western Geek," Lori coos in a sickly-sweet voice. "It's made a mess of itself. How awful!"
"Well, we'd better get it clean then, huh?" Darryl replies.
They pick her up before she can escape a second time; something's stuffed in her mouth before she can scream for help.
She's half-dragged, half-carried through town- acquiring numerous bumps and bruises along the way- over to the half-frozen river. Their footsteps crunch loudly on the ice.
"Into your bath, Western Geek!"
Becky realizes what they're about to do. In a panic she tries to wriggle loose and kick as hard as she can but to no avail, as they're all bigger and stronger than her.
"Hold it right there!" another boy's voice cries out. "Let her go."
"Cripes, it's Luke," Darryl mutters. "He's seen us. Let's dump her right now."
Without further ado they toss her into the air; she lands in the freezing waters of the river with a shock that drives what little breath she has out of her lungs.
The water closes over her head. She fights for the surface, clearing her mouth as she does, only to have her throat fill with water as she tries to breathe inches too soon. Finally she reaches air, choking and gasping in the icy wind.
As if by miracle a hand seizes the collar of her coat; she looks up, just making out a boy with blue eyes and dimples peering down at her, blond hair flopping onto his forehead. "Reach for my other hand," he urges.
She almost does in time, but the current's too strong. Finally he can't hold on for much longer and she slips away from his grasp.
She's not giving up completely, but what she can reach winds up being too slippery to grip and she realizes it's futile. There's no way she can haul herself up on top, anyway; her sodden clothing and waterlogged boots are pulling her down, the current's pulling her inexorably farther downstream.
Gradually Becky feels her limbs growing sluggish and unresponsive. Death from hypothermia soon, if not from asphyxiation first. She can't even get enough breath to cry for help.
One last thought before the darkness closes over her mind.
I love you, Uncle Mac. Always.