Thanks again to everyone who's read and reviewed this story! And I can't believe it, an actual helicopter pilot stumbled upon my story, who'd have thought? I feel like I got caught lying on my resume or something—well, I did warn y'all I didn't know what I was doing! So to guest reviewer Etta, if you've made it this far, bless your heart and thanks for weighing in on the wild inaccuracy of my understanding of helicopters, and thanks especially for being so nice about it! There's no doubt Bee should be super dead by now, but, well, here we are.

As usual, stay safe out there, everyone. Wear your masks, wash your hands, don't fly helicopters without a pilot's license, and remember to leave a review!

Chapter 18: Below Rock Bottom

The days blended together as we walked. Exhausted as I was, it was an enormous relief to feel even slighter warmer air as we left Caradhras behind us. However, the dissipation of snow did little to warm the chill in my blood, which seemed there to stay.

Not only were my dreams now filled with thoughts of the Ring, but nearly every waking thought dwelled on it too. I wasn't sure how it had happened—it was like I had been sinking gradually into quicksand, but hadn't realized it until I was up to my neck. I couldn't stop imagining how it might feel to use the Ring to get home, the methods I might use to operate the palantír, the way the warm, heavy gold band would gleam on my finger…

The few remaining thoughts that weren't occupied with the Ring were protesting, in an ever-weaker voice, to remember why I was here. You're here to help Frodo destroy it. You promised Elrond. You're going to look for a way home in Minas Tirith—

"It'll be a shame to leave this snow behind, eh?" Merry said, reaching up to nudge me in the side.

The absurdity of his statement shook me out of my thoughts. "Are you kidding?" I snapped. "I can't wait to be warmer again." I scowled down at the hobbit, who had stopped to scrape the last dustings of snow from the grass into a lumpy sphere.

"Come on, now," he said, grinning evilly. "Tell me you won't miss—this!" With uncanny aim, he launched the snowball at the back of Legolas's head. I snorted despite myself as the elf whipped around in shock—I had a feeling that, however many centuries he'd lived, no one had ever hit him with a snowball before.

"Bee, how could you?" Merry cried.

I whacked him on the head indignantly. "Don't blame me for that—"

"Ah, fear not, Beatrice," Legolas said, grinning as he looked between us, "for I suspect I know who the true culprit was."

"A Brandybuck won't stand for such slander!" Merry roared, bending to scoop up more snow.

"Aim for his head, lad," Gimli called, looking immensely entertained; the dwarf was in higher spirits than any of us now that we were heading for Moria. Legolas glared at him as he dodged another attack from the hobbit.

I tried to smile as I watched them, but I still felt detached, numb, and after a moment my thoughts drifted, as though magnetized, back to the Ring.

"What is that?" Legolas said abruptly, squinting into the sky. Merry hesitated, looking startled, and dropped a half-formed clump of snow from his hands.

"What now?" Gimli huffed, glaring at the elf.

"Quiet," Gandalf hissed, turning a stern eye on them all. "Listen."

For a long moment, we all stood frozen—then with sudden darting of wings, a flock of crebain swept overhead, so briefly that I almost missed them. Bill whickered nervously, eyes rolling, and Sam rushed to his side to calm him.

As though it had been buffered by the crebain's wings, the wind picked up sharply, snapping at the ragged end of my braid and sending a pang of cold through my bones. The wind swelled to a shriek, then to a howl—

"Wolves!" Legolas hissed.

"A greeting from Saruman, no doubt," Boromir bit out, his head bent against the wind.

Wolves—and sent by Saruman? I shivered, suddenly feeling horribly exposed. The wilderness stretched around us, a swath of hilltops interspersed with gorges and jagged rocks, slowly rising in the near distance to sheer cliff faces. I couldn't help but see monsters leaping out of every shadow, teeth gnashing—

Strider turned to Gimli. "How far to the doors of Moria?"

"Very close now," the dwarf said, pointing at the blue line of mountains looming on the horizon. "Scarcely a league off."

Gandalf and Strider exchanged a solemn nod, and without a word we all began to run.

The wind rose quickly as the sun dipped below the peaks. I could hear the wolves distinctly now, though it was impossible to discern how close they were—the wind ripped at their howls, dashing them against the rocks around us until they were indistinguishable. Were the wolves ahead of us instead of behind? Were we running right into their jaws? My breath came in short gasps. How far was a league anyway?

Part of me was grateful for the distraction. Anything—anything to push away thoughts of the Ring.

At last, we approached the cliff face. "There they are! The doors of Moria!" Gimli pointed as we neared two of the largest trees I'd ever seen, their branches crawling up the wall of the mountain, gnarled roots erupting from their trunks and stretching towards a dry riverbed nearby. A flat expanse of rock stretched between the trees, though I couldn't see any signs of a door there.

"Wait!" Strider barked, and we skidded to a halt behind him. "Look." He pointed at the ground ahead of us, a dried rock-and-mud riverbed. "Footprints—wolf and goblin both." I squinted at the ground, but it was almost completely dark now, and I couldn't make anything out.

"Goblins?" I repeated, horrified. I couldn't help but think of The Hobbit, and how Bilbo's run-in with goblins had gone.

"How many?" Boromir said, grasping the hilt of his sword.

Strider shook his head. "Enough to greatly outnumber us. I fear the wolves are cornering us here intentionally. We must act quickly—Gandalf, Gimli, get us into the mines!"

The wind was rising to ever greater heights as we approached the door. Boromir and Legolas set out to build a fire, claiming it would deter even wild wargs—whatever those were—but I eyed their work skeptically. If I was a starving wolf, a bit of fire wouldn't make me blink. "Hurry," Legolas murmured as they gathered firewood. "There is something foul in the air that is unknown to me. I fear a strange evil shall soon overtake us."

Strider and Sam were hurriedly removing the packs from Bill's back. "The mines are no place for a pony, Sam," Strider told the hobbit gently, even as tears rolled down Sam's cheeks. Bill tossed his head from side to side nervously, and Sam threw his arms around the pony's brown neck.

Gandalf, Gimli, and the other hobbits had gathered under the shadowy branches of the trees, and I gasped as the outline of a door appeared before them on the bare rock, like strands of spider silk glimmering in moonlight. They began to argue about passwords and riddles, their voices half-drowned by the screaming wind, carrying the wolves' howls ever closer.

I glanced around nervously, the feeling of wrongness growing with each second.

A stagnant-looking pool stretched out into the darkness near us, a last bit of life clinging to the dry riverbed. Its surface rippled unevenly in the bitter wind. By the faint silver light of the moonlit door, I could see the wolf tracks and boot prints Strider had pointed out, all trampled thickly under our feet.

"What's that?" I wondered out loud, staring into the darkness at a shadowy mass breaching the water, too far for me to make out.

Frowning, Strider took a newly lit torch from Legolas and brought it to me. I held it with both hands, wincing as the wind whipped at the flame, threatening to snuff it out. "A watcher in the water," he murmured. "Some lake-dwelling beast of enormous size. Or rather, what is left of it."

The flickering light illuminated the monster's corpse, slimy and gray and horrible. A mass of tentacles floated on the surface of the lake, undulating away from the body like bloated worms. "Thank goodness it's dead," I breathed, but Strider shook his head thoughtfully.

"There are black arrows poking from its skin. Do you see? Goblin-make, given the watcher's…companions." He nodded to the right of the creature's corpse, where several smaller bodies floated, distended and bloodied, in the stagnant water. "There was a fight. Several days ago, I should think."

I blanched, looking away quickly as my stomach turned. "Those are goblins, huh?" Strider nodded grimly, and I backed away from the lake, suddenly eager to leave the waterside.

The howling on the wind grew louder as I walked towards the cliff wall, clambering over enormous tree roots until I stood against one of their trunks. I peered up into the blackness of the branches. The darkness was overwhelming; the trees were thick with holly leaves, their evergreen shadow untouched by my torchlight or the silvery glow of the door where the others still stood, calling passwords and commands with growing desperation in their voices. I took a deep, shuddering breath to steady my nerves—and realized what was wrong.

Gasoline.

I sniffed the air again, winced, and was sure. "Strider?" I called, my voice higher than normal.

He followed me after a moment. "What is the matter?"

"Do you smell that?" The smell of gasoline, once so commonplace to me, was acrid and stinging after spending so much time in a pre-industrial world. I coughed. If it weren't for the howling wind, the smell would have been overpowering.

"Yes, though I do not recognize it," Strider said, wrinkling his nose. "And look—this is strange." He pointed at the trunk, and it took me a moment to see the deep scratches in the bark, extending at regular intervals all the way up into the branches. "It looks as though something has climbed the trees."

"What, an animal?"

"No. Something metal made these marks—armored boots and gloves, perhaps. And you see those long marks there? Something heavy was dragged into the branches. Large boxes, perhaps, or barrels. Can you make sense of it?"

I leaned forward for a better look, and placed a hand on the tree trunk to steady myself. My palm came away damp. "Ugh!" I hissed, rubbing at my hand, and lifted it to my nose hesitantly. "Strider, it's the bark—the trees are doused in gasoline! Hurry, get the torches away, quick—"

"Aha!" A cry from Gandalf made me whirl around in fear, but he was smiling. "Well done, dear Frodo! Mellon." They had finally found the password. With a strong push and the unbearably heavy creak of stone on stone, they began to force the doors open.

"Beatrice," Strider said sharply, and I turned back to him. "What is gasoline?"

A cacophony of howls cut him off, and we whipped around.

The wolves had come at last.

They were approaching from both sides of the riverbed, ringing the black pool in swift, calculating strides. I wasn't sure I'd ever seen a wolf outside the Dallas Zoo, but these looked much bigger than any wolves I'd ever heard of, muscles bulging under matted fur, red tongues lolling between enormous, curved fangs. And on their backs rode creatures that could only be goblins, yellow eyes glowing feral in the sickly light of at least a dozen torches, raised high over their heads.

Torches…I stared from the flickering light to the oil-slicked trunks of the holly trees. Strider said something heavy had been hoisted into the branches—

"Strider!" I grabbed his arm desperately, my voice half-lost to the wind. "They're going to blow up the entrance!"

As one, the wolves charged.

"Into the mines!" Strider roared to the others. "Quickly!"

I tore away from the trees, heart pounding. "Come on!" I cried, grabbing the nearest hobbit by the arm and dragging him into the narrow gap in the wall.

Boromir, running beside us, hefted his shield and moved to defend us from the bounding wolves—but the creatures weren't even looking at us. The goblins weren't even holding any weapons.

"What are they doing?" he hissed, pausing as we filed into the entrance.

I shook my head in answer, dragging him further into the mines as, with wild cries, the goblins leapt off the wolves' backs and flung their torches against the tree trunks.

The oil-soaked bark went up like paper. "Keep moving—away from the doors!" Strider bellowed, his eyes trained on the wolf pack, but the wolves and goblins were already retreating, showing no desire to follow us into the mines. Their job was done.

A flickering orange light lingered in the doorway for the briefest moment, the roar of fire growing like an enormous, rattling breath. We kept retreating, stumbling over rocks in the darkness, as fast as we could, until—

BOOM.

The walls shook—the stone doors quaked—the doorway collapsed, and we were engulfed in dust. Rocks rained down and the walls buckled around us, the crashing and groaning of stone loud enough even to drown out my thundering heartbeat. At last, the avalanche of stone slowed, then stopped. I had fallen to the ground, the hobbits huddled around me in the darkness.

For a long moment, I couldn't move, but I forced myself back to life as a torch was lit somewhere to my side. In its flickering light, I saw Boromir crouched above us, his chest heaving and his dark hair thick with white dust. He had raised his shield protectively over us, and slowly lowered it back to his side as he pulled us to our feet, looking as stunned as I felt. "Thank you," I gasped as our eyes met, though all that came out was a wheezing cough.

My brain still buzzing numbly, I reached into my bag and dug around for my flashlight. I'd dropped my torch in the explosion, but I wasn't too keen on lighting it again; I found I much preferred artificial light to fire.

Strider raised his torch higher. "Is anyone hurt?" he called, and the rest of the Fellowship gathered around him, shell-shocked and ragged. Other than being filthy, bruised, and scratched, none of us were badly injured. And of all of us, Legolas was the only one who had escaped a thorough coating of dust. Typical.

Gandalf coughed violently and raised his staff, which began to emit a pure white glow. His hat was badly dented and drooped over his jutting eyebrows, and I had to force myself not to let out a nervous laugh.

"What was that?" Frodo's voice cut through the dusty air like a knife.

"A trap laid by Saruman, I believe," Gandalf replied, examining our surroundings. "He must have known we would take this path, and wished to trap us outside the gates—or under them."

"Luckily, Beatrice recognized his ploy," Strider added. "So that is gasoline, eh?"

I swallowed nervously, the flashlight beam shaking in my hands. "It wasn't just gasoline," I said weakly. "There were some kind of explosives in the trees that ignited when the fire reached them."

"It is a shame," Legolas said, "to lose such old trees, which have guarded this door for so long."

Gimli snorted. "The trees? The entire door is gone. It is only thanks to the great skill of the dwarves that this hall has not collapsed entirely."

This hall…At his words, we paused and studied our surroundings for the first time. "What has happened here?" Boromir said slowly, horror in his voice.

I cast the weak beam of my flashlight up to the walls and high ceiling. Thick cobwebs blanketed the thick stone pillars and torch brackets. Although the newly settling dust from the explosion made it difficult to tell, I suspected this hall hadn't been occupied in a long time. But when I flicked the beam of light toward the ground—

"No!" Gimli cried. Skeletons littered the floor, armor and pieces of fabric clinging crookedly to the brown bones.

"It seems unlikely now that we shall find Balin alive," Gandalf said gravely. The dwarf began to weep, his shoulders shaking.

"Must we journey through this tomb, Mithrandir?" Boromir hissed, resting a hand protectively on the dwarf's shoulder.

"Unless you care to dig your way out of the wreckage behind us, Boromir, then yes, we must," the wizard snapped. "In attempting to divert our course from Moria, Saruman has bound us to it."

"Can't we find a way back out?" Sam said, his voice broken. "We left Bill out there—what if the wolves get him?"

"There is no way back out," Strider replied. "But do not fear for Bill, Sam. The wolves will have retreated far from Moria—likely back to their master in Isengard. And your pony has proven a resilient creature; I would not be the least surprised if he found his way back to Rivendell before long."

Sam nodded bleakly, burying his face in Frodo's cloak.

"It is a three-day journey to the other side of the mountain." Gandalf dusted off his hat and replaced it crookedly on his head. "Let us move on."

On we moved.

It was slow going. Whatever Gimli had hoped to find in Moria, it was clear he would be disappointed. The mines seemed to be in ruins—we scrabbled over crumbling stairways, leapt over gaping chasms in our path, stumbled horribly over bloodied armor and dusty bones half-buried in rubble.

The bleak atmosphere was doing nothing to help my mood. The distraction of the wolves and goblins had passed, and now I was more on edge than ever, struggling to breathe steadily in the oppressive darkness, the lifeless cold.

"What has roots as nobody sees, is taller than trees, up, up it goes, and yet never grows?" Sam recited sing-song under his breath. He nudged Frodo, and beamed when the other hobbit smiled faintly back. "D'you know that one, Miss Bee?" Sam asked, turning to me. "I know Mr. Bilbo shared some riddles with you back in Rivendell."

I frowned, my footsteps slowing. I hadn't thought of Bilbo, or of Amarien or Lanion or any of the others I'd befriended in Rivendell, in days. I'd tried to write letters to them on our descent from the mountains, but ever since I'd begun to dream about the Ring, I found the words wouldn't come. I could barely even write to my own family in Texas anymore, Boromir's spare parchment crumpled half-forgotten in my bags. I'll do whatever it takes to get home, I'd written to my mom; returning to those words now made me feel ill. "Yeah, I've heard that one," I told Sam, with some difficulty. "We exchanged a lot of riddles, but I couldn't guess most of his others."

"Fool of a Took!"

We all jumped, and I turned to see Gandalf glaring at Pippin, who'd been using my flashlight to make finger puppets against a far wall in a weak attempt to make Gimli smile. Hurriedly, he pressed a palm over the light, clearly unsure how to turn it off.

"We are attempting to remain discreet," the wizard snapped, snatching the flashlight from the hobbit and pressing it back into my hands. Gimli patted Pippin's shoulder comfortingly, chuckling despite himself as Gandalf turned a sharp eye on me. "And you would do well, Beatrice, to keep your magical possessions out of the wrong hands." I nodded, scowling and flipping the off switch. "Here is as good a place as any to make camp," he added at last, looking exhausted.

I kept first watch that night. The others had protested—it was more dangerous here, I looked so tired, didn't I need to rest? I had waved their arguments away, reining in my anger with difficulty. What did it matter if I was up half the night? I wasn't tired—I had never been so awake, so restless. I took my post, pacing erratically and squinting into the darkness, eyes wild and unfocused.

I had to get the Ring. I would get it. Plans flew, half-formed, through my fevered mind, one after another. Obviously, it would be for Frodo's own good to get the Ring away from him, considering the danger it put us all in. The events of today proved that, if nothing else. My foggy memories of Boromir's death in the movie had become all but indistinguishable from the dozen horrible deaths I'd conjured up in my fevered mind for all of them—they were all in danger as long as Frodo had the Ring.

But that didn't mean Frodo would give it up easily. I'd have to convince him. Once we made it out of Moria, I would get him alone and talk to him. Surely he'd see things my way soon enough—it would be so much easier for everyone if I just took it back to my world…But what if he didn't agree?

You're stronger than him. It would be easy, so easy, to just take it. The thought seemed to come from outside my own mind, and I flinched. What was I thinking—could I really hurt him, attack him, steal from him? He was my friend. If that's the only thing keeping you from getting home…

Beatrice…

Yes, I thought feverishly. Yes, if that was the only thing keeping me from getting home, then I didn't have a choice, did I? The only other option was to sit back and let the Fellowship fall apart, let my friends die, and never find my way home. That wasn't a choice at all! Something clicked in my head, and I exhaled sharply, burying my face in my hands. "Now that you are given one, you're either left with two or none," I recited under my breath.

"Beatrice?"

I jumped, whirling around the darkness, and recognized the silhouette of Gandalf's now-dented hat. "What?" I hissed, fury bubbling up in my voice, unfounded.

"You have wandered rather far from your post," he said mildly. "It is dark, and the ground uneven. Do take care not to fall." The wizard leaned heavily on his staff, which was emitting a barely visible beam of light. I blinked, taking in my surroundings for the first time in several minutes. My pacing had indeed taken me a long distance from the Fellowship, who were huddled in their bedrolls at the far end of the cavernous hall. "Are you well, child?"

He had asked me that once before, and I was no better then than I was now. Child. The word prickled at my brain—he thought I couldn't handle myself on this quest, that I was weak, foolish, helpless—hadn't he seen what I was capable of by now? I escaped from Saruman, I made it to Rivendell, I'd gotten this far, hadn't I? Child. I would show him, all of them. I would take the Ring, saving all of Middle Earth in the process—I would be stronger than any of them—

"Beatrice." Gandalf's voice was still a whisper, but it had an edge to it I'd never heard before.

My blood was thin and cold in my veins. With an effort, I mumbled, "No, I don't feel well."

"Then come back to the others. I will take up the watch."

"I can't," I whispered. "I—I'm not…" I didn't think I could bear being among them, laying down to sleep among people who trusted me, as though cruel, terrifying thoughts hadn't been churning in my mind all day. A last tendril of clarity passed through my mind. "Something's wrong with me," I admitted, so quietly that the words dissolved in the dusty night air.

Gandalf sighed. "Yes, I believe I know what ails you."

My blood went cold at his words. He knew? Shame bloomed in my stomach, quickly giving way to fury. He knew I wanted the Ring—so he must have known why I wanted it—and he still insisted on sending it off to Mordor, taking away my only chance at getting back home?

"Oh, do you? You know Middle Earth would be safe if it was brought back to my world," I hissed, struggling to keep my voice down. "Damn it, why didn't you bring it up at the Council, why didn't you even suggest letting me use it to get back home?"

Gandalf's eyes narrowed, and his fingers tightened on his staff. "You know very well why. What is your plan—advancing on Isengard with the Ring in an attempt to wield the White Wizard's palantír? It would not succeed, Beatrice."

"It would!" I spat, rage burning oily and black in my stomach. Did he even want me to get back home? Or was he trying to keep me here forever, like Saruman had, hoping to take advantage of my world's technology? Did he really think I'd sit by and let him do that? How little did he think of me? "You never had any faith in me, not when we first met and not now, you think I'm too weak to do it!" I clenched my fists, feeling that same horrible urge to strike him: a grasping, sinister figure in the dark, no longer the kindly old man I had known. "To think I looked up to you when I was young—"

"Beatrice Smith!"

The darkness seemed to solidify around us, Gandalf's shadow growing larger, menace billowing outward from the wizard's silhouette.

"That is enough." There was an awful finality in Gandalf's voice now. "It is not a matter of your strength or weakness. Do you understand? It is the Ring's greatest hope to be brought to Saruman, who would in turn lead it to Sauron himself. You cannot return to your homeland with the Ring. I will not hear a word of this foolish scheme again, do you understand? You will not speak of it to anyone, especially to Frodo." I didn't reply. My hands had clenched into fists, and I was shaking. He grabbed my shoulders harshly. "Listen to me! You know why we did not suggest this."

I heard his words as though from a great distance, but I didn't respond.

"You recall what was spoken at the Council. The Ring must be destroyed—do you remember?"

I squeezed my eyes shut. "Yes, of course I remember," I gritted through my teeth. "It's the only way to keep it out of the enemy's hands. If any of us uses it…" I faltered. The others had talked about this at the Council, but now it seemed ridiculous and naive. I forced the words through my teeth. "Any work we do through the Ring will be turned to evil." I let out a shaky breath. "That…that's why I can't use it to try to get home."

He nodded sternly and went on. "The nine of us chosen to protect the Ringbearer made an oath—do you not remember?" I swallowed. I tried to summon the words, but suddenly they were rising like bile in my throat and I choked convulsively. "Tell me!" Gandalf folded his arms imperiously, suddenly looking every inch a wizard. "Recall your promise, Beatrice Smith, or revoke your place in the Company!"

"I agreed to help destroy it, alright?" I whispered, my temper rising to match his. "I swore to go with Frodo and to—to protect him." But taking the Ring from Frodo would protect him, can't you see that?

"You did." The wizard studied me intently, as though he knew exactly what I was thinking. "And I too have sworn an oath to protect Frodo, against anything or anyone that means him or this quest harm."

I had never heard such a chill in his voice. My mouth opened and shut a few times uselessly, but Gandalf shook his head.

"Hear me now, Beatrice: were we not in Moria, I would turn you from the Company without delay," he said, and I flinched as though he'd struck me. "But given our circumstances, we must pass under the mountains as one. We shall discuss this further under the sunlight—perhaps the free air will clear your thoughts. But if it does not, you shall depart at the earliest opportunity. Do you understand?"

I nodded. "I'm sorry," I said, my voice low. I didn't mean it.

"I will take up the watch," Gandalf said carefully. "Go and rest." He gave me a piercing look as I turned away, and my heart went cold. Gandalf—a larger-than-life wizard, someone I'd idolized as a little kid—didn't trust me anymore, thought poorly of me, expected the worst of me. And I deserved it. For a moment, guilt overwhelmed me in a bitter wave. But as it washed away, the poisonous draw to the Ring resurfaced. How would I get my hands on it now, when Gandalf would be keeping such a close eye on me?

Hating Gandalf, hating myself even more, I walked back to the others. My hands were shaking at my sides.

A faint scuffling noise made me pause, and I whirled around, expecting goblins, giant spiders, a cave-dwelling monster—but instead I saw a glimpse of a curly head poking around a pillar. "Sam?" I whispered. The hobbit stepped out from the shadows guardedly, wearing a look of betrayal and anger that froze me in my tracks. I swallowed hard, suddenly understanding—he'd had trouble sleeping, perhaps, left his bedroll for a moment, heard our whispered conversation—but how long had he been listening, how much had he heard?

His stricken expression was answer enough. "Miss Bee," Sam replied slowly, glaring up at me with more malice than I'd thought him capable of.

Oh, it was one thing for Gandalf to be furious with me, but somehow seeing distrust and wariness and fear mingled on Sam's round face, directed at me, made me want to curl into a ball and weep.

I swallowed again and tried to school my face into a neutral expression. "You…you shouldn't be up this late," I said, my voice sounding false and hollow in my ears. "Gandalf's got the watch taken care of. Let's get some rest."

"Go on then," he said bravely, challenging me. "After you."

Shame bubbled up in my throat as we walked in a line back to the others. Quietly, I crawled into my sleeping bag, where I proceeded to toss and turn for what must have been hours. Finally, I risked a glance over at the hobbits' bedrolls. Sam was sitting up, stoutly keeping watch over Frodo's sleeping form. At my rustle of movement, he turned and glared at me in the dark.

Tears fell bitter and hot from my eyes as I burrowed back under my blanket.

Things couldn't possibly get worse than this.