He had to trust the tent. He had no choice. He'd done all he could; worrying was energy-sapping and he needed his energy to stay warm, to heal.He lay awake through the screaming, buffeting horrors of the night, the seething, whining sound of snow and ice crystals driven against the tent fabric by seventy and eighty knot winds. The upper half of the tent whipped far over, yielding like a slender reed in a gale. That was its salvation. Upright resistance would be flung from the ice shelf and driven into the sea.He slept, feverishly; his leg throbbed, his face flushed. Breathing came fast and shallow. He gasped with the exertion of living. His body rallied its defenses against the infection in his deep wound, festering and spreading its poison.He dreamed of struggle. He dreamed of standing against invisible enemies, using his will to live as a shield against their offer of blissful surrender, of their call to submit to the inevitable, to ease into sleep and calm acceptance, to be. She shrugs and digs for her keys.Tonight doesn’t have to be a lonely night.Sasha produces the keys and slips inside. As she tosses the keys onto the small table in the foyer, her heart drops briefly. Even though it has been two months since her dog, Sandy, got hit by a car, she is still getting used to not being greeted at the door when she comes home.She frowns a bit then drops it. It is her birthday after all and there is no sense on being unhappy. She kicks off her shoes and walks over to the phone. After dialing two different numbers and spending about five with each call, Sasha hangs up and heads for the kitchen.There she pulls out a bottle of red wine, pops the cork and pours herself a glass. She is about half way through her second glass when there is a knock at the door, followed by it being opened.“Hey girl!” a voice says from the foyer. “It’s just us!”Lisa and August both have keys to her house. These two women are Sasha’s best friends. They grew up in this same city but in.
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