Waiting made sense.
That was the problem.
Morning came in thin and gray, the kind of light that didn't warm anything, just showed you what you were about to lose. The wind had settled overnight, leaving the snow smooth and deceptively calm. No movement on the horizon. No sounds beyond the distant creak of frozen metal and the slow complaint of trees under ice.
Rowan was the first to speak.
"We should stay one more day."
He said it casually, like he was suggesting a longer rest, not gambling with our lives. He crouched near the trailer door, tightening the straps on his boots, breath puffing white.
"The storm burned itself out," he continued. "Traveling now wastes calories. We've got shelter. We've got a little food. We move tomorrow, we move stronger."
I looked at Iris.
She didn't answer immediately. Her eyes tracked the tree line, then the service road, then the open field beyond. Calculating. Always calculating.
"Staying means heat," she said carefully. "Heat attracts attention."
Rowan shrugged. "So does moving."
That was true too.
I hated that it was true.
I flexed my fingers, feeling the stiffness fight back. My joints ached deeper than they had yesterday. That meant the cold had gotten into me while I slept. Or that I hadn't eaten enough. Or both.
"We don't know what's nearby," I said. "The tunnel wasn't far."
Rowan nodded. "Exactly. Which means they'd have come already if they were hunting this way."
If they were hunting, I thought.
Controllers didn't hunt the way others did. They waited for patterns. For habits.
For people who made the same choice twice.
Iris finally turned toward us. "One day," she said. "We don't light a fire. No noise. No movement. We leave before dark."
Rowan smiled, relieved. He trusted her. That was obvious now. She spoke with certainty, and certainty was currency in winter.
I didn't smile.
But I didn't argue either.
That was on me.
We spent the morning rationing silence. No talking unless necessary. No unnecessary movement. Rowan patched a tear in his coat. Iris cleaned her knife until the blade shone dull and clean. I sat with my back against the wall and ate slowly, counting chews, feeling each swallow settle like a stone in my gut.
Time stretched.
That was another danger. When nothing happened, your body relaxed. Your mind wandered. You started imagining futures again. Warm ones.
By midday, I noticed Rowan shivering.
Not the normal kind. Sharp. Uncontrolled.
"You good?" I asked.
"Fine," he said too quickly. "Just burned more than I thought yesterday."
I watched his hands. Pale at the fingertips. Nails tinged faintly blue.
Iris saw it too.
"Eat," she said, pushing a portion toward him.
Rowan hesitated, then shook his head. "Save it. You two need it more."
I hated that. Hated how noble it sounded. Hated how much winter rewarded that kind of thinking at first.
"You're the warm one," I said. "If you go down—"
"I won't," he interrupted, smiling. "Not today."
The smile stuck with me.
It always does.
By afternoon, the temperature dropped again. Subtle, but enough that the trailer began to pop and groan as the metal contracted. The wind returned in low gusts, dragging snow across the ground in long, whispering sheets.
Iris stood near the window, tense.
"We leave at first light," she said again, like repetition could anchor the promise.
Rowan nodded. His shivering had slowed, but that worried me more. When the body gives up shaking, it's not because it's warm.
It's because it's tired.
Dusk came early.
Too early.
The light faded fast, swallowed by clouds rolling in from the west. The air felt heavier, damp with the promise of more snow. Iris cursed under her breath.
"Storm's coming back," she said. "Not a big one. But enough."
Rowan shifted. "Then it's good we stayed."
Iris didn't answer.
Neither did I.
Night settled in layers. Cold thickened. Silence deepened. I took first watch, sitting by the door, crowbar across my knees, eyes straining against the dark.
That's when Rowan started slurring his words.
It was subtle at first. A softness to his speech, like he was tired enough to stop caring how things sounded.
"Remember that place," he said suddenly, voice low, unfocused. "Back before. The one with the stupid neon sign."
I glanced back. He was sitting against the wall, head tipped slightly to one side.
"I don't," I said.
He laughed quietly. "Figures. You never liked staying anywhere."
I felt something tighten in my chest.
"You cold?" I asked.
"No," he said. Too fast again. "Just… tired."
Iris crossed the trailer in two steps and knelt in front of him, pressing the back of her fingers to his cheek.
Her jaw clenched.
"You're freezing," she said.
Rowan frowned. "Feels warm to me."
That was it.
That was the line you never wanted to hear.
I moved instantly, pulling my coat open, trying to wrap it around him. Iris followed, stripping off her outer layer, hands working fast, efficient.
"Hey," Rowan protested weakly. "You're gonna freeze."
"Shut up," Iris snapped. "You don't get to be generous right now."
We tried everything.
Movement. Pressure. Shared warmth. I forced him to sip what little we had left, holding the container to his lips when his hands wouldn't cooperate anymore. His teeth clicked together, then slowed.
Too slow.
His eyes drifted unfocused, lids heavy.
"Just rest," he murmured. "I'll be fine in the morning."
"No," Iris said, voice sharp now, afraid. "You don't sleep. You move."
Rowan smiled at her.
A real smile.
"Always bossy," he said.
Then his eyes closed.
"Rowan," I said.
Nothing.
I shook him harder than I meant to. His head lolled forward, chin dropping to his chest in a way that was painfully familiar.
I'd seen that posture before.
Under the overpass.
"No," Iris whispered. She slapped his cheek once, then again. "No. Wake up. Wake up."
I pressed my ear to his chest.
The heartbeat was there.
Slow.
Too slow.
The wind outside howled louder, rattling the trailer, snow hissing against the walls like static. Somewhere far off, something answered. A sound carried strangely through the storm—not a scream, not a call. A signal.
Controllers didn't waste opportunities.
Iris looked at me, eyes wide, desperate.
"We need heat," she said. "Now."
I hesitated.
Fire would save him.
Fire would kill us.
That was the choice.
That was always the choice.
I struck the match.
The flame bloomed small and defiant, licking at the air, casting shadows that jumped violently across the trailer walls. Iris fed it carefully, shielding it with her body, coaxing it into something more.
Warmth spread.
Rowan sighed.
For one terrible second, hope flared.
Then the sound came closer.
Footsteps. Many. Slow. Organized. Snow crunching in deliberate rhythm.
Iris heard it too.
Her hands stilled.
The warmth that saved Rowan's body betrayed us immediately. The trailer became a beacon, heat bleeding into the storm, carving our position into the night.
Rowan didn't wake.
His breathing slowed again, shallow, uneven.
Iris looked at him, then at me.
"We can't carry him," she said. It wasn't a question.
The footsteps were close now. Too close.
Rowan's eyes fluttered open briefly. He looked at us, confused, then smiled faintly.
"Guess… waiting wasn't smart after all," he murmured.
I swallowed hard. "I'm sorry."
He shook his head weakly. "You stayed. That counts."
His eyes closed again.
They didn't open.
Iris let out a sound I'd never heard from her before—raw, broken, furious. She slammed her fist into the trailer wall once, hard enough to draw blood.
Then she stood.
"We move," she said. Her voice was flat now. Empty. "Now."
I looked at Rowan's body.
At the man who burned too bright.
At the cost of waiting.
Outside, shapes moved through the snow, patient and unhurried, already claiming what winter had softened for them.
We left Rowan where he sat, wrapped in our coats, fire guttering low beside him like a dying star.
The door closed behind us.
The storm swallowed the sound.
And winter took its first real payment.