Chapter 22
One moment, Jem was sliding across the snow.
The next, he was falling.
It was like the ground had collapsed beneath him.
He dropped, and the snow fell in on top of him.
The shock of the cold was everything. Then a surge of energy ran through him.
He windmilled his arms, grabbing for something—anything.
Instead, his arms spun through the snow.
There was resistance, but nothing solid. Nothing to stop his fall.
And then he did stop.
The snow. The snow, compressed under his weight, had finally packed itself densely enough to support him.
The snow had caught him.
He almost laughed.
And then he tried to breathe.
He inhaled snow.
It hit the back of his throat, and he started to choke. More snow filled his mouth. He flailed his arms, trying to clear space around his head, shoveling snow away. More snow fell as soon as he cleared it—fresh, thick, powdery snow that poured in as quickly as water.
The inside of his head went red.
He kicked.
Nothing.
He clawed.
It was like grabbing sand.
The red inside his head turned into pressure. And the pressure went dark.
In spite of his best efforts, his body tried to breathe again. He choked on more snow.
Dark.
Darker.
Black.
One last burst, hands raking the snow.
Another hand caught his, and someone pulled, and Jem felt himself being dragged up at the same time that something else, something much, much heavier, dragged him down, down, down.