Ashen Winter

Darla had built this bicycle-powered gristmill not long after we arrived at the farm. In the bitter cold the night before, the stones had frozen together. Now we were trying to separate them without cracking the ru

Holding wedges for Darla left a lot of time to think. We were pla

While Darla and I worked on the gristmill, Max, A

When the weather had grown so cold that even the kale started to die, Darla designed a wood-fired heating system for the greenhouses. She found a description of a similar system, a hypocaust, in one of my cousin A

So we had to cut more wood. Luckily, my uncle’s farm backed up against Apple River Canyon State Park. We never would have cut its trees in normal times, but now we had no choice.

That’s where Uncle Paul and Aunt Caroline had gone that day—to the edge of the leafless forest to cut firewood. Darla said they were going out there to get some “alone” time, but that didn’t seem likely to me. It was way too cold to expose any more skin than you absolutely had to.

A crack of gunfire brought me crashing back to earth.

Darla froze and locked eyes with me. Then we heard A

Darla dropped her hammer, and we dashed to the side door of the barn—the one that faced the greenhouses. I eased it ajar and peered out.

Four men wearing ski masks and ragged forest camouflage were clustered around the door to one of our greenhouses. Max lay face down, a wide arc of blood staining the snow beside him. One of the men was prodding Max with his toe, his handgun trained on Max’s head. A man wearing a bright blue scarf had A

I held my clenched fists against my roiling stomach, as if to hold it in, to hold myself together. Max. Was he dead? He wasn’t moving.

“I’m going for help,” Darla said, and she was gone, racing for the main barn door, which faced away from the greenhouses.

Get it together, Alex, I told myself. Darla’s getting help. Maybe there’s something you can do in the meantime.

The bandits were preoccupied with their task—none of them were looking my way. I opened the side door wider, dropped to my belly, and slithered through. Immediately I wormed off the trodden path into the deep snow. The snow slowed me down, but it also hid me.

When I thought I was close, I cautiously raised my head above the level of the snow. The bandits had a homemade toboggan, laden with lumpy canvas bags. They’d gagged and bound A

I blinked repeatedly, but my eyelids couldn’t clear the gruesome scene. My body was coiled tight, caught on a knife edge between two fears: I needed to help Max, to see if he was even alive, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t approach the sled without being seen.

The four bandits grabbed a knotted rope and started hauling the toboggan away. Max’s blood drew an erratic pink streak in the snow. I couldn’t let them abduct my sister and cousins. Rebecca was the only family I had left. I’d rather die than lie there in the snow and watch her being taken. I had a black belt in taekwondo. I’d been forced to use it during my flight from Iowa last year. But trying to fight four of them at once? Suicide.

Suddenly it struck me: All I had to do was slow them down until Darla came with help. If I could get them to talk . . . I stood up. “Stop!” I shouted.

All four of them turned. Three gun barrels swiveled toward me. I sent fruitless orders to my knees to be still.

“Leave the girls. Take me instead.” I was relieved my voice didn’t quaver. Much.

Handgun stalked toward me until he was less than thirty feet away. His mouth twisted in a cruel leer, and he raised his gun, aiming at my head.

Chapter 2

I was dead. He was too far away for me to rush him, too close for the bullet to miss. Trying to talk was a stupid idea—the last stupid decision I’d get to make.

A gun barked. Handgun was thrown sideways, arms splayed, as blood bloomed at the side of his chest. I glanced left. Darla was about 100 feet off, kneeling in the snow, her eye sighting down the length of Uncle Paul’s hunting rifle.

Shotgun raised his weapon, business end pointed at me. Max, whom I’d feared was dead, punched at the bandit, aiming for his groin. He missed, hitting Shotgun in the hip. The gun wavered and boomed. My side felt like it had been stung by a dozen angry hornets, though most of the pellets flew wide, peppering the snow beside me.

Another rifle shot rang out. The bullet caught Shotgun square in the chest and threw him backward against the toboggan.

I was ru

Blue Scarf turned and ran. Machine Pistol hesitated, then stepped backward and raised his gun at me. Darla shot again but missed. I put everything I had into my insane charge, screaming at the top of my lungs. Maybe he’d just shoot me instead of spraying Max and the girls.

Instead, he lowered his gun and fled.

Darla fired again. Machine Pistol stumbled, but collected himself and kept ru

I staggered to Max, my body trembling with fear and adrenaline. A bullet had carved a narrow trough along his temple. Blood soaked the side of his hat, scarves, and coat.

“Get the hell out of my field of fire!” Darla screamed.

I ducked, hoping she could fire past both of us. Bright red blood poured from Max’s head, gushing in time with his heartbeat. I hesitated a moment, unsure what to do. A year ago I would have screamed for help and called 911. Now nobody but Darla would hear me scream. The phone wouldn’t work, and even if it did, there was no one to answer it.

I knew how to stop the bleeding—put a clean cloth over it and apply pressure. But what if his skull were cracked? Wouldn’t pushing on it make it worse, maybe kill him?

I stripped off my gloves and started probing the wound as gently as I could with my fingertips. Max moaned. He was shaking and sweating despite the cold. My hands dripped blood.

Darla was alongside the sled now, kneeling in the snow and firing at the fleeing bandits.