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The fence pressed against my shoulder. I used it to pull my leg free and stood with no grace whatsoever, gasping hard enough that cold air cut my throat.

Fix the fence.

"The fence is fine," I told Big John.

My teeth struck together.

"Your road is terrible."

Complaining, at last.

It helped.

I walked.

The cold moved inward by stages.

Fingers first, despite the gloves.

Then toes.

Then cheeks and nose.

My thighs burned from lifting. My lungs hurt. The blanket gathered snow beneath the coat until it became damp weight rather than insulation.

At some point, I began saying the work aloud.

"Post."

Step.

"Post."

Step.

My voice stayed small beneath the wind, but it gave time a shape.

The fence turned slightly south. I knew that bend. There should have been a stock pond beyond it, then the outer pasture, then the long rise toward the ranch yard.

I saw none of those things.

I trusted the wire.

My right glove tore at the palm.

I felt the wet before I felt the metal scrape. I changed hands. The wind struck my face harder when I turned, so I crossed my right arm over my body and used it again, torn glove and all.

I fell twice more.

The second time, I rolled onto my back because my knees refused to get beneath me.

The sky above was the same color as the ground. Snow struck my eyelashes and melted into the corners of my eyes.

I wanted to close them.

Not sleep.

Just stop seeing white for one second.