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“Staring at my backside—have you looked your fill?” I ask, my voice dripping with disdain.

“Am I supposed to be insulted by that?” He sounds genuinely baffled.

If he’s going to make me spell it out, then … “Yes.”

He grunts. “I’ll try to remember that next time you cut me down with yourscathingwords.”

I can just about feel his pleasure at his little comeback.

Good one, horseman. You really got me by the tits this time …

I look over my shoulder at him. His armor and his crown gleam in the darkness. “You aresucha creeper,” I note.

His brow pinches.

“In case it’s not obvious, that’s another insult,” I add. I turn back to the fire and focus my attention on it.

Pestilence lingers for a minute or so, and a part of me is curious what he’s doing back there. Hopefully dying of humiliation, though I doubt it.

A minute or so later, the horseman leaves the living room, the clink of his armor growing fainter and fainter. A door closes and then I hear the sound of bathwater running.

I could use a bath too. I smell like horse and sweat, and who knows how dirty my bandages are. But taking a bath means asking for help removing my bandages, and I’m just not ready to go groveling to Pestilence at the moment.

I light the paper shoved between the logs, then I sit down to watch the fire grow.

For the first time since I drew the burnt match, I have a moment to myself not fueled by adrenaline or fear or pain. I try not to think about what that means. It’s easier to understand where things stand between me and the horseman when he’s actively seeking to hurt me. It’s not so easy when he’s just irksome.

For a long time my thoughts are aimless. You’d think that I’d use the time wisely—to plot my escape or think of ways to incapacitate the horseman, but no. My mind is oddly empty.

There’s a collection of fine porcelain figurines lining the mantel above the fireplace. One by one I scrutinize the painted faces. It’s such a specific interest—to collect these little figurines—and it’s just another reminder of how many people are out there in the world. Right now, whole cities of them are fleeing for their lives.

I imagine all the lonely corners of Canada, each one now home to thousands of displaced individuals waiting for the horseman to pass through. We’re playing a lethal game of whack-a-mole, and we’re all the vermin.

I stare down at my mom jeans and outdated shirt. Amongst all those thousands of people are my parents.

My heart lurches. I don’t know why my mind keeps taking me back to them. Guilty conscience, I suppose.

The plan had been for us all to bunk down at my grandfather’s hunting lodge—a hole-in-the-wall cabin located dozens of kilometers northwest of Whistler.

Deep down, I knew I’d never make it there.

“You go on ahead,” I told my parents. “I need to finish evacuating the city.”

The memory still stings.

“Don’t be a hero,” my dad said. “Everyone is leaving their post.”

“I need to do my job.”

“If you do your job, you’ll die!” he shouted. He never shouted.

“You don’t know that.”

“Damnit Sara, I do. You do. What is the survival rate of this thing?”

There wasn’t a survival rate. People either avoided Messianic Fever, or they succumbed to it. I knew that, my dad knew that, the whole world knew that.

“Someone has to help those other families,” I said.