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"Here."

"You're out," she said. It came out wrecked. "Hutchins said. I drove the whole way not — " Her jaw worked twice before words came again. "You're really out."

"Yeah."

"Okay." She nodded against my chest, three times, too fast. "So… where do you need me?"

The barn moved around us. A heifer bawled. Somebody dragged a panel shut. Wind threw snow through the open door until the ranch hand forced it closed.

Josie tried to look over my shoulder toward the pens.

"Where?" she asked again.

"Nowhere."

Her eyes found mine. Hazel gone glassy with cold and exhaustion.

"But the calves—"

"Not like this."

I carried her into the office.

The cot stood against the wall beneath the whiteboard. I sat her on it and pulled the blanket from under her coat. It came away heavy with snowmelt. Her body kept shaking after it was gone, small violent movements that made the cot springs complain.

"Coat off."

She tried to work the zipper. Her fingers slid off it.

I did it.

Slow. Careful. No jerking. No sudden movement, though I wanted to tear every wet layer away and put my own body around her until the cold gave her back.

Her gloves came next. The right one had torn across the palm. Her skin beneath it was scraped and red.

"Fence," she said through chattering teeth.

"I see."

"No. I followed it."

I stopped.

The county road. The gate. Two miles of open ground in a whiteout.

Something large and sick moved under my ribs.

I kept my hands steady.

"Boots."

"I can—"

"I know."

I knelt.

Her laces had frozen into stiff knots. I worked them loose and eased the first boot off. Water ran from the sock onto my palm.