But I kept walking. What was the alternative? Go back and pound on the door of the man who threw me out? He had made his choice. I had nowhere to go but forward. One numb step at a time.
The insidious thing about hypothermia is that it lies to you. You don’t realize you’re dying. Your body starts shutting down the non-essentials—fingers, toes, ears—to keep the core warm. Your brain gets foggy. Decision-making becomes molasses.
Suddenly, sitting down for “just a minute” seems like the most brilliant idea in the world. Just a quick rest. Just close your eyes until the shivering stops.
I made it four miles before my legs betrayed me.
There was a mailbox up ahead, a silver beacon in the gloom. I remember thinking I would just lean against it, catch my breath, and then push on. Grandma’s house was only three more miles. I could do three miles.
My knees buckled before I reached the post.
The gravel rushed up to meet me. It scraped my cheek, but I didn’t feel the pain. Everything went grey, then black. The roar of the rain faded into a dull, distant hum.
Three hours after throwing his daughter into a storm, my father’s phone rang.
