Chapter 6: The Descent

The snow has been falling for three days straight.

Lake-effect snow, the meteorologists call it, a relentless barrage of white that has buried the city under nearly two feet of accumulation. The temperature has plummeted to -14°F, with wind chill making it feel like -30°. The roads are treacherous, the sidewalks impassable, the whole city hunkered down against the brutality of a Michigan winter.

I’ve been walking to work through it all.

Every morning, I step outside my apartment and into the frozen wasteland. The snow reaches mid-calf on my bare legs, the wind cuts through me like a knife, and the cold seeps into my bones in ways I didn’t think possible. But I keep walking. I keep moving. I keep surviving.

The adaptation has continued. My body generates more heat now; my circulation has improved; my tolerance for the cold is significantly higher than it was a month ago. Dr. Park’s data shows it: my core temperature is more stable, my stress hormones are lower, and my recovery time is faster. I’m becoming something new, something I never expected to be.

But the weight of exposure is starting to take its toll in other ways.

The morning starts like any other.

I wake before dawn, slide out of bed, and stand at the window watching the snow fall. The Blue Bridge is barely visible through the white curtain, its blue arches lost in the storm. The river has frozen solid, its surface a sheet of white that stretches from bank to bank.

I should be used to this by now. I should be accustomed to the cold, the exposure, the constant pressure of being seen. But there’s something different about today. Something heavy and dark that I can’t quite name.

It’s the anniversary of my mother’s death.

She died three years ago today. Cancer, slow and cruel, taking her piece by piece until there was nothing left. I was there at the end, holding her hand, watching her slip away. She looked at me with those faded eyes and said, “You don’t have to be perfect, Emma. You just have to be real.”

I didn’t understand what she meant then. I was too busy trying to be perfect, trying to be the daughter she’d always wanted, trying to hide the parts of me that weren’t good enough. I didn’t understand that she was permitting me to be myself.

Now, standing naked in the cold, I think I finally understand.

The walk to work is harder than usual.

The snow is deeper than it’s been all winter, reaching almost to my knees in some places. My bare feet are numb within minutes, my legs aching from the effort of pushing through the drifts. The wind howls around me, sending gusts of powder across my exposed skin, making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead.

I keep walking. I don’t have a choice. The Protocol requires it. And even if it didn’t, I don’t think I could stop. Something is driving me forward, something that won’t let me give up.

By the time I reach the parking garage, I’m shivering uncontrollably. My skin is red and chapped, my muscles stiff with cold. I slide into my car and sit there for a long moment, waiting for the heater to warm me up.

It takes fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of sitting in the cold, naked and shaking, wondering if I’ve made a horrible mistake.

The office is quiet when I arrive.

The bullpen is half-empty, with many of the assistants working from home due to the weather. Susan is at her desk, looking tired and stressed. She glances up when I walk in, and I see something flicker in her expression.

“Emma,” she says. “Are you okay? You look ... You look like you’re freezing.”

“I’m fine,” I say, but my teeth are chattering. “It’s just a little cold.”

“A little cold?” She stands up, comes closer, and looks at me with concern. “Emma, you’re blue. Your lips are blue. You need to warm up.”

“I’ll be fine. I just need to get to my desk.”

“Emma—”

“I’ll be fine,” I repeat, and I walk to my desk before she can say anything else.

I’m not fine.

I sit at my desk, trying to focus on my work, but I can’t stop shivering. My fingers are too cold to type properly. My mind is foggy, distracted, unable to concentrate. I keep staring at the screen, trying to remember what I’m supposed to be doing.

Dr. Park appears at my desk at 10:00 AM.

“Emma,” she says, and there’s something in her voice that I haven’t heard before. Concern. Worry. “Come with me. Now.”

I stand up and follow her to her office. She closes the door, gestures to a chair. “Sit down.”