It's cold— and bright. I'm moving. A bump sends a shockwave of pain through my stomach. My hand lays uselessly on the stab wound. I lift it up. It's soaked in blood.

The dragging stops. Feet crunch into snow. Ellie stands over me. She's somehow tied my sleeping bag to the horse to drag me.

I try not to scream as Ellie pulls me over a threshold into a basement. She disappears into the upper floors of the house while I breathe through waves of hurt, nausea, and weakness.

Banging noises echo from upstairs. The basement door creaks open. A mattress descends the staircase, Ellie's head bopping behind it. I sigh. Why does she care so much?

Unconsciousness claims me again with the explosion of hurt brought on by Ellie hauling me onto the mattress. When I come to, she's looking at my wound, desperate worry evident in her eyes, and a shred of towel crumpled in her hand. The pain takes my breath away as she presses the towel against my belly. My legs tense and I can't help myself from gasping and flailing, the agony from my injury making me lose control.

There's no way I survive this. I tell Ellie to leave—to go North—to go back to Tommy, but she insists on holding that towel to my mortal wound. I cant take the pain anymore and I cant take her still hanging onto hope. I grab her by the collar, shove her away, and tell her to go. A look of loss, of defeat and sorrow comes over her. She stands then pauses. Ellie covers me with my jacket like I'm a helpless child. She stomps up the stairs away from me. Good.

I try to relax but the throbbing in my stomach gets worse. The blood soaked towel draped over the wound start to dry. It starts to stick to my hand. Ellie told me to hold it, but I'm not going to. I can't. It hurts too much—and there's no use. I will die from this one way or another.

I'm cold again. Between the freezing temperatures, all the blood I've lost, and an aching chill in my bones, this is getting unbearable. The chill doesn't feel like the cold of winter or blood loss. It's a sickly chill. It feels like the first sign of blood poisoning. My guts throb and feel tight. The weakness in my muscles reminds me how weak and vulnerable— how helpless I am. Queasiness builds in my throat, but I try not to move, I try to breathe through it, because I'm not strong enough to roll over to puke. I wish I hadn't woken up. I wish I could pass out again, but the comfort of unconsciousness wont come.

Footsteps pound down the stairs and my heart pounds at the sudden sound. Ellie is back. She holds my hand. She has a needle and thread. This is going to hurt, but I can see her sad eyes pleading me to keep fighting. I can see that she needs me to hang on as long as I can.

I know that needle and thread wont do anything. For the amount of blood I've lost outside, I've bled just as much internally, and stitching skin wont fix that. Judging by the pain, the nausea, and the chills, my guts are ripped open and septic shock is setting in, but if this gives her peace of mind, if this is one of the last things I can do for Ellie, then okay.

Sharp pain stabs through the skin of my stomach. I grip Ellie's jacket as she slides the needle through layers of skin. She's working as fast as she can, but its agony on a level I've felt few times in these past twenty years. I arch my back and grit my teeth, holding back a scream, as she tries her best— in vain— to save me.