The part I am looking for is highlighted. In pink. It’s a coincidence, I think. An old textbook bought at a yard sale or something. This person couldn’t possibly have known that Isaac would spike a fever that could kill him. Could he? I suddenly get chills. I look up, and when I do, I’m eye-to- eye with the black horse. I drop the book.

This is a game. This move is mine. I go to the wood closet. There is no more shed; Isaac started storing the tools in the Chapter Nine wood closet. I pull the axe from where it is propped, ignoring the glossy pages that run up and down the inner walls. I touch the tip of my finger to the blade. Isaac kept it sharpened. Just in case. Just in case Senna loses her mind and needs it, I think. I make my way up the stairs and turn right into the carousel room. The book is facedown on the carpet where I dropped it. An ungraceful splat on the floor. I kick it aside and look at my horse. Right in the eye. This horse and I bonded once upon a time over an arrow through the heart. I feel as if it betrayed me. Made me love it with its bone saddle and death tokens and morbid obesity—morbesity. Fattened me up for the fall.

“Give me what he needs,” I say. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just give me what he needs.” And then, “Checkmate.”

I lift the axe and don’t stop lifting the axe until my arms are jello-fied and my teeth are clanging together hard enough to deliver a headache, and the horse is just a mess of jagged, ripped metal. It reminds me of the inside of a Coke can I once cut open with a knife.

Now he can’t see us anymore. Why did it take me so long to figure that out?

Chapter Thirty-Six

I lie beside Isaac, still as stone. I can hear the wind whipping the snow around outside. There is no window in Isaac’s room. It’s on the side of the house that faces the cliff and the generator shed that the zookeeper didn’t want us to see. But across the hall is the carousel room, and the noise filters in from there. It sounds like a blizzard. I’m unconcerned. I’m already cold. I’m already hungry. I’m already hopeless. I’m stuck in reverse; always trying not to die.

I lift my head and check his breathing. Shallow. He needs fluids. I hold a cup of melted snow to his lips, but it just runs out of his mouth when I try to make him drink. I read the highlighted portion in the book and I do everything it tells me. Though there isn’t much. Cool cloth to the forehead—we are in the arctic. Keep room at cool temperature—we are in the arctic. Cover him with a light blanket, doesn’t matter if it’s made of fur—we are in the arctic. Fluids. That’s the most important thing, and I can’t get him to swallow anything. There is nothing I can do.

He starts to mumble, his eyelids flickering from the turbulence of his dream. They are just words that drop off before he can finish them. Tormented moans and gasps intermingling with the chattering of his teeth. I lean my ear close to his lips and try to make out what he’s saying, but as soon as I do, he stops. I am scared. I am really f**king scared. He’s probably calling for his wife. And all he has is me.

“Hush,” I tell him. “Save your pluck.” Though I get the feeling I’m really telling me.

I fall asleep for a bit. When I wake up my body is pressed against Isaac’s. I went looking for his heat while I slept. I’m too afraid to move. If he’s hot, he’s still alive. He makes a noise in the back of his throat. Relief floods. I get up and light a fire. I try to gather its heat in my palms as I wiggle my fingers toward the flames. Every few minutes I look over my shoulder to check on the rising and falling of his chest. It’s barely a rise and fall. It’s more of a little flutter.

Then I get an idea. I get up and grab the cup of water from the bedside table. The cup is cool against my hand. I climb onto the bed and throw a leg over his waist until I am straddling him. I keep my weight off his body by suspending myself on my knees. I just need enough leverage to get to his lips. Staring down at his gaunt, skeletal face, I take a deep sip of the water. This is probably a stupid idea, but there is no one to witness it. I bend my head down until my lips are touching Isaac’s. It feels as if I have my mouth pressed against an overheated car engine. His lips part automatically. I push the water into to his mouth and keep my lips firmly pressed to his to keep it from rolling out. I feel his throat move, feel it push the water down, down, down his esophagus. I imagine that I can hear the tinkle as it drops into his empty stomach.

I do it again. The second time doesn’t go as well as the first; water spills down the side of his face and he sputters a little, but I keep trying. When Isaac has swallowed a shot glass worth of the melted ice, I roll off of him and lie staring up at the ceiling. After the hours I’ve spent being helpless this feels like an accomplishment. One of epic proportions. It used to be that if I finished a book I’d feel accomplished. If I landed on the New York Times bestsellers list I’d feel more accomplished. If they made a movie out of the bestseller I’d feel like I was the essence of accomplishment. Now if the man I’m imprisoned with swallows a mouthful of water, I want to sprint around the room in victory.

My limbs and brain are flaccid. I repeat the process every twenty minutes. If I try too often he starts to choke. I’m so terrified that his heart will stop I keep my palm pressed to his chest to feel the lazy thud.

“You keep him alive,” I tell it. “Keep beating.”

Ugh. My tear ducts are burning. I fist my hands and rub my eyes like a child. I need to refill the water in the cup. I could slip around the corner to the bathroom, but the water from the faucet is brown and tastes like copper. Isaac and I usually drink the snow. My mouth is dry and my throat feels coarse. I haven’t wanted to drink the water in the cup. I don’t want to leave him, but the need to drink, to pee, to get more snow moves me off the bed.

I make my way down the stairs, grabbing my sweatshirt from the banister. Isaac’s rubber boots are at the front door. I slip my feet into them and plod to the kitchen to grab a pitcher for the snow. The pitcher is below the sink. I duck down to retrieve it. When I come back up, I glance out the window to assess the snowstorm. That’s when I see him.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The zookeeper calls me into the snowstorm. I knew he’d come eventually. You don’t put on a show like this and not expect applause. I see him outside the kitchen window; a dark shadow against the white snow. He’s facing me, but there is snow and wind and it’s swirling around in cold chaos. It’s like I’m looking at a grainy television picture. He stands there for at least a minute, until he knows I’ve seen him. Then he turns and walks toward the cliff. My hands grip the edge of the sink until my wrists ache from the pressure. I have no choice but to go out there and follow him.