The wind struck her face and Bara shook with a shiver. Why had she left her bedroom window open? She’d keep her eyes shut tight, as though with enough determination on her part, the cold would go away. Another gust shook her further from rest. She reached down for the warm softness of her comforter and felt something wet and cold instead. Then something sharp and thin scraped against her face. With flaying arms, she battled the many fingers of her foe, but she faced no human. Wind-borne branches from a leafless willow tree whipped against her cheek and cut through her hair, grabbing hold and refusing to let go.

None too easily, she tore out of the willow’s reach and looked around. She was in a late-autumn meadow upon a raised bed of moss. Red light filtered through the surrounding forest. The sun was either rising or just about to set. Her luck. It was setting. The wind was harsh. She wore only a light sweater and jeans. It was a dream but the cold felt real, and of course, she wore no shoes. She looked down at her stocking feet and swore from now on she’d sleep dressed for a blizzard, but despite the cold, her mood lifted. She was in the Slip and would have her chance to make things right. A challenge to her boldness rode on the wind. Somewhere a wolf howled.

Fear rose up and Bara fought it back down. She scanned the meadow and its edges. Her eyes settled on a small break in the bush—a trail. She took a step forward and left the mossy mound with a splash. Thick grass had hidden the true nature of the clearing. Here wool socks were of no use. She was shin-deep in water. Not a meadow … a marsh. Wonderful! What’s next? One thing for certain. The Slip insisted on suffering feet.

There was no point going back onto the moss. Her socks would take forever to dry. Waiting would do nothing, and so she ignored her discomfort, waded through the wet to the meadow edge, and peered down the path. The way was narrow and slowly growing over with ferns and bush. She lifted her feet onto the trail. It at least was dry. Somewhere a bird trilled its support. Other than the howling wolf, it was the only sign of animal life. She took it as a good omen, gathered what little she wore around her exposed neck, and entered the forest.

A setting sun darkened from red to mauve and then violet, casting the forest in an eerie glow. The trail widened as darkness fell. The light left and the wind grew stronger still. Trees swayed violently. Small tornadoes whipped up fallen leaves and swung them in a circular fury. Whirligigs of debris cut across the path. The wind reached deep into the forest with its rough grip, rattled through the dense canopy, and twisted through the bushes and saplings. Such was the strength of the storm, giants would be uprooted before dawn. Brynndalin was at work here too.

No bird sang for Bara now. There were no sounds but those of her footfalls and the whining wind echoing through the Slip. She wished Mathew would appear and guide the way. He didn’t. The air grew colder still. Her sweater and jeans were no match for the remorseless wind and the dropping temperatures. She pulled her sleeves over her hands and wrapped her arms around her waist and tried to reason away the cold.

It’s only a dream, she reminded herself. Tell that to my chattering teeth, another part of her mind retorted.

The night wore on and the stars were hidden. Clouds warmed the air, but they turned to a pinkish hue, a sure sign of snow. The first impish sliver fell, brandishing icy blades. Soon it was joined by an abundance of its little thug friends. This would be no light and fluffy fall of Christmas carols. Ice pellets stung her face and hands. The wind sliced at her ears. She pulled her sweater up over her mouth and nose, burying frostbitten ears further into woolen folds, and kept going.

Time passes differently in the Slip. Like in any normal dream, a second can feel like an hour, a minute a lifetime. Bara didn’t know how long she walked. Well at first she walked, and then trudged, through ever-deepening snow … ankle-deep, shin-deep, and finally knee-deep. Her wet socks had frozen solid. It was like being shod in ice trays, but she soon forgot about her feet. Blessedly, or not-so-blessedly, she couldn’t feel them anymore.

Focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, she watched one frozen pink argyle sock sink into the snow until it … then her ankle … then her shin, disappeared. She lifted her foot, replaced it with the other, and repeated the process. She watched her feet as though they weren’t part of her. She watched them as though they were a cog-operated machine pulling her along. She had to. Don’t think of the cold—one foot and then the other—one foot sinks and then the other. Do it again.

Pulled along by icy feet, she watched her shadowy head bob up and down in front of her on the snow. A meditative process. It allowed her to continue. Her head went up and then it went down—up and down, up and down.

Over time her shadow transformed and grew additional heads—one, then two, and now three heads. Her shadow had three heads! Bara was so tired. She almost accepted the multiple heads as some new reality. Then these heads were shaped differently. They were thinner and longer. She stopped. Her shadows stopped too. She turned in profile. The shadows did likewise. Long, sharp snouts revealed themselves, long, sharp snouts that couldn’t possibly belong to her. Bara turned around. She knew what she’d find. And there they were—not just one wolf, but a pack.

One, two, three, four, five, she counted silently.