The sky is grey. Great plumes of clouds are above, and give dreary tidings to the desolate land below them. The sun has yet to rise in this midday hour, and thus, evening shades of blue are still present, especially in the farthest stretches of the horizon. Barren land this was, marked by the ice and snow. The solemn ambience plays in her ears.

Kate remembers this. It was the spontaneous family trip they took to visit her mother's distant relatives in Alaska. She was in her first semester of high school, and her parents were eager to rekindle familial bonds with the extended family over Thanksgiving break. She remembers the offer her relatives made for them to see the northern lights from the edge of the world, a trip she had wanted to make ever since she heard of such magnificent phenomena. It was during the beginning of polar night and the onset of freezing temperatures, and many times they were dissuaded to turn back and wait for the next summer, but she persisted. She wanted to know—she needed to know.

There were snow-capped dunes a quarter mile further inland, to denote the separation of the beachhead and the land itself. However, beyond these small dunes, it was a vast, empty stretch of land, as far as the eye could see. The rental vehicle their family had parked near the coastline was a grey dot placed upon a vast white tundra. There were no signs of life, not for miles around.

She faced towards the sea. Water as black as the abyss lapped gently upon the shore. This water was polka-dotted with caps of ice, which thickened the farther she looked, until this white expanse was as indistinguishable as the land she stood upon.

It was terribly cold. Gentle winds nip harshly at her nose and ears, even despite the beanie she wore under the thick fur hat she was gifted by her relatives. Three separate jackets were the absolute minimum her parents allowed, not a single layer less—especially since she only had one pair of gloves. The winter boots that were a couple sizes too big were conveniently large enough to accommodate the two layers of woolen socks she wore. These boots were also sealed off with a special tape designed to keep any snow out. She, like her younger sisters, was a walking bundle of garments for the majority of the trip. Her niece and nephew were more adept to the cold, and were not layered in the same overbearing manner as the Marsh sisters were; so they poked fun at them for it. It was even to the amusement of Kate's aunt and uncle, although they were much more nuanced with their smiles.

For her part, Kate was unbothered by it—in fact, she and her sisters made fun of each other for their stocky appearances more so than anybody else. Snowballs stood no chance of hurting them, the bitter cold winds could not hold them back from exploring whenever the family stopped to take pictures. It was a fun trip, as it was meant to be.

Yet, Kate remembered herself having been marked by a subtle discomfort. It followed her every step, and kept her company even when surrounded by the happiness of her relatives and siblings. However, she remembers that it left her briefly, when she had stood here, in this present moment. She buries her gloved hands into the pockets of her outermost jacket, gazing outwards, into the emptiness.

Kate stood there. Alone. At the edge of the world.

Here, there was nothing.

No regrets.

No pain nor suffering; no fatal mistakes and bitter memories.

No familial hardships, no obligations nor pressing concerns.

No anxiety, no fear.

Nothing.

She is cold, yet warm. Though the biting chill hugs her intensely, her heart beats confidently with life. Though numbness assails her extremities, she is unmoved by its presence.

She is…at peace.

There is the faint sound of voices, calling out to her. She recalls the concern her parents had when she had stayed out of the car the longest. Her niece and nephew were no strangers to the cold, and knew that prolonged exposure invited sickness. Her sisters were scaredy-cats, and would come running back into safety whenever their Mom and Dad beckoned them to. But she was indifferent to nature's deadly promises in this particular moment. She turns back to face them—

Two figures; male and female. Their faces are lost to memory, but everything else remains. They have short brown hair. His is shaggy, uneven; hers is a chin-length bob cut. He wears his olive-green sweater, and she wears her light-grey jacket and pink t-shirt. Kate does not expect them here, for they do not belong. Arcadia is thousands of miles away, and many hundred-thousand seconds into the future. They cannot be here. They stand as glaring outliers in this dreamscape. The blonde trembles, and she knows exactly why.

Remember our promise, Kate.

The world falls down.

She sees nothing above, nothing below. There is nothing in nor out, and she panics when the pull of gravity takes hold. She tries to reach out to anything—but nothing is there.

Kate.

Something compels her to stop thrashing, and so she stops. The same feeling compels her to lay down, and so she does. Gone is the panic, and in its place is exhaustion. She doesn't remember being this tired, and this cold. Had she stayed out for too long…?

I'm right here, Kate.

Kate blinks. Her weary silver eyes open the slightest.

It's okay hon', I'm right here.

A hand rests upon her forehead. Another pulls at something—a blanket—near her face. She feels the soft fabric itching her chin. A soft hum reaches her, which sounds like the heater her family uses during wintertime. Her teary eyes look up to a blurry face. It's hard to find details, but Kate sees her mother's shade of blonde hair, and she sobs instinctually. It cannot be real, it cannot be true.

"M-mom…?"

The person hushes her, and beckons softly, "Just rest. Go back to sleep."

Kate tiredly nods, and closes her eyes. She feels their fingers wipe a tear falling down her cheek, and then she slips back into the abyss.

The television is turned on. It is silent at first, the volume having been turned down completely, but a couple taps from the remote bring sound just far enough to the couch she's resting upon.

"…Welcome back, I'm Tim Patterson and this KBAY7 News special report. We come to you live from the intersection of Second Street and Oak Avenue, where our correspondent Cary Lugner gives us the latest update on the situation. Cary, what's going on out there?"

"…well, Tim, not much has changed since the early hours of the morning, where the militia guarding the entrances to the town hall were ambushed by a group of terrorists, who utilized the cover of last night's freak storm to commence their attack. We know that once the initial surprise wore off, brave militiamen from inside the building were able to repel the attackers and drive them away, and no word has come from police and remaining militia units operating inside Arcadia. So far, the death toll has remained the same; with thirteen militia having gave their lives for the sake of the town, and another four taken to the hospital with varying conditions. There has been no confirmed status of the attackers aside from the two vehicles intercepted by militia on the north side of town, authorities are asking locals to be on the lookout for anyone they suspect to have been involved in the attack…"

Kate turned the volume back down, then set the remote back onto the small table in front of her. She chose to ignore these words, and inspected the improvised bandage on her right side, fashioned from a belt and a pad of gauze. She had no recollection of being shot—though in her defense, she hadn't the time nor the ability to notice, not since she was driving back to Blackwell with…

He's dead. He's gone. He can never return. All because of you.

Inhale. One, two, three. Exhale. Feel the upholstery of the couch, see the morning light from the back door. Taste the water from the spare glass on the table. Breathe in. Breathe out.

There's whispers coming from the kitchen. They are most likely talking about her, but she can't tell. She's torn between her curiosity and her dread, and decides to stay on the couch.

A hand of hers takes hold of the sling of her messenger bag, and pulls it up from its spot on the floor. Her eyes lock onto the hole on the front side, and she opens the bag up to inspect its contents. The journal was still there, as well as the envelope, both undamaged by lead and rain. Her notebook and couple folders were also unscathed—

Her camera is destroyed. She takes a shaky hand and pulls it out, some fragments of its polymer frame spilling back into the bag as she did so. She mourns the loss, but trouble finds her again as she searches for her phone. It, too, has perished; and she finds herself overcome with a morbid sense of curiosity as she pulls her phone out to examine the cause of its demise.

There is a bullet, lodged into the device. A prominent bulge can be seen on the backside of the phone where its outer shell barely stopped the round from passing through. Kate had placed a sticker on the backside of the case, a small little decal of a cross with a small inscription underneath: Jesus saves. The bullet had made mincemeat of this decal, but her life had been spared.

…why am I alive? Why me, and not…?

She doesn't get to ponder these questions. The shuffling of boots reaches her ears, and she ducks her head at the shifting presence coming from the kitchen. The person sits down in the navy-blue chair over by the left side of the couch, or farthest away from her. She recognizes who they are, and keeps her head turned away in shame.

"…how is it?" Madsen asked. She looked up to him, confused about his wording, but he gestures to the bandage and asks again, "Does it hurt?"

"…n-no," she rasps, her voice hoarse from lack of use, "It itches a bit. It's fine."

He nods in concurrence, "That's good, that means your body's healing."

A break of silence passes them. Madsen seemed interested in what was playing out on the television, and Kate was busy retreating into her head. Neither were unsure how to continue.

"…how did I…?"

"Pardon?"

She tries again, "How did I get here? How was…"

He cleared his throat, and explained, "My wife and I heard the gunshots coming from down the block, and got out of bed to investigate. By the time we reached the backyard, we found you stumbling onto our patio, and so we took you inside. You were hypothermic, and in a state of shock. We decided to take care of you instead of sending you to the hospital, since the militia would put two-and-two together and have you thrown in jail. They'll believe you to have been involved in what happened down by the town hall."

"But, I…" she feels tears sting at her eyes, "I had nothing to do with that. We had nothing to do with that—Warren, he has driving us to Blackwell, but then…"

She imagines Warren, lifeless, riddled with bullet holes. Gunned down like a rabid dog. She remembers the gunshot wound in his stomach, and figured it to be inevitable.

Why, Lord, might you spare me but not him? What had he done to deserve this?

"…what happened?" Madsen cautiously asked. The man had no scorn for her—in fact, he seemed pensive, his frown was pinched with concern.

"We were driving down the street, the one which leads up to Blackwell's heights," she recounts, "A bolt of lightning struck the car, and we…suddenly we were driving back down the slope, towards the town hall. I don't know how, I can't explain it—one second we were fine, and the next we were driving into the checkpoint, being shot at by militiamen. And—and Warren was shot, in the stomach. He tried to get us out of there, and we made it out of the checkpoint, but…he crashed."

Madsen's eyes flicker to the television. A bird's eye view from a helicopter shows a hatchback which had driven straight into a telephone pole, surrounded by police cruisers and militia technicals.

"I tried to get him to come with me, to get him to safety," Kate sobbed, "but he refused. The militia were coming, so he told me to leave him. I didn't want to, but he begged me to run away, and save myself. So, I did."

"And I ran, and I ran," she sniffled, "The militia were chasing me. I thought I'd be safe in the alleyway, but they caught up to me. I hopped over the fence before they noticed, and ended up here."

Madsen says nothing. He takes it all in, and scratches idly at his mustache.

"…last night," he started, "You said that you had found the body of Rachel Amber. Is that true?"

Kate nodded, "Yes, sir."

"And your friend, Max, gave you the tip-off about Rachel's whereabouts?"

"…yes, sir."

Again, a pause. The clock on the wall was ticking every second. Slow, steady.

"…I have to go, my shift will be starting soon," Madsen stood up as he spoke, "For now, I'd like you to stay here, and rest. You may use the landline to call your parents, if you have to. It's over by the wall next to the island in the kitchen."

She traces his sight down to the busted cellphone in her hands.

"Please stay inside, and don't get yourself into trouble. I'd like to discuss more about what you and your friends have uncovered once I return. In the meantime," he walks over to the kitchen, and then returns with a set of clothes, "There is a shower upstairs and to the left. Get yourself cleaned up. If you're hungry, there's food in the fridge and pantries. Joyce will be back before my shift ends, and she will need some help with groceries. She will not ask for it, but it would be best if you helped her. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Mr. Madsen."

He nods, "Good to hear. I'll be back, stay safe."

He leaves. The house is silent. Kate is alone. With nothing better to do, she slowly eases herself up, and takes the set of clothes with her on her journey up to the shower.