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“You have to untie my hands,” I say. I keep my voice matter-of-fact, even attempt to sound a little shy.

“What?” he sounds alarmed.

“Um. Girls have to squat,” I say. “I can’t exactly balance with my hands tied. Basic biology and center-of-gravity stuff. Plus it’d be hard to pull my pants down, and unless you want to do that—”

“No, no, all right,” Daniel says, his cheeks turning red.

Behind him, something moves in the woods. Something low and dark and four-legged. Bo? Or, more likely, the wolf-dog. It slinks toward us step by step.

Daniel steps up to me. He tugs at the knots a moment, curses as he catches the side of his nail, fumbles a bit more, and then gives up.

He looks really young close up. Early twenties, maybe. I feel older than he is, even at sixteen. Or am I seventeen now?

“What day is it?” I ask.

“Huh?”

“I’ve lost track,” I say. “What day is it?”

“Uh. February sixth,” he says. “Monday.”

“Guess I missed Christmas,” I say. And my birthday is in November, so I’ve missed that, too.

It’s weird, realizing I’m seventeen. That I’ve been seventeen for months. I should be waiting on college admissions and feeling the effects of senioritis. I can barely remember what school was like. It’s so surreal to think about it’s almost funny. A day dictated by bells and classes, hallways crowded with other people my age.

I always liked school. I can’t remember why, now.

Daniel flicks open a knife and sets it against the ropes. Wait, I tell myself. Wait, and then move.

There’s a rock at my feet. Small enough to lift. Large enough to hurt.

Daniel cuts through the rope. It takes some sawing to get through, but then I unwrap my hands quickly.

“Thanks,” I say. I want to add, Sorry.

He gives me a tentative smile and turns away.

I lunge. He must hear the movement, because he starts to whip back around, but I bring the rock up in both hands and swing it as hard as I can at the side of his head.

Something crunches at the impact. Daniel’s hand seizes up, squeezing a shot off into the ground. He drops to his knees. I don’t wait to see if he gets back up.

I run.

I RUN DEEPER into the woods. I have seconds before Raph follows, and the snow means I’ll leave tracks, but it’s the only hope I have.

Get away. Get armed. Get to the plane.

Branches whip past my face. Pain stabs through my ribs, but it isn’t the worst I’ve felt, not close. Just bruises, and the painkiller is still blunting the sharp edges of it.

Footsteps crash behind me. I don’t dare turn around.

A shot rings out. Then another. A bullet strikes the tree to the right of me, bark and splinters of wood exploding from the impact point. But Raph is firing blind; I had a decent head start on him.

I know the woods, know where there’s a creek I can run up, ice that won’t leave tracks.

I know where the snow will be patchy on the ground because the trees make a thick canopy above, and where the deer trails drive furrows through the underbrush.

I just have to go faster.