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She moves before Lilja can voice her hurt, before Óskar can reach her. They came in through the front door, but that's too far away, the crowd too full for her to try. Even if she weren't feeling like this, like her whole world were coming apart and she was the one yanking at each thread, she wouldn't want to be here. It's the big night, the last celebration before they lose access to the house. Everyone's treating it like a great tragedy. But this is just an excuse to drink too much, to dance in the darkness together, screaming into the void.

She nudges the plywood aside from the back door, prepares to throw her body into it to get it free, but the door swings smoothly on its hinges. She slips outside, pulling the door shut behind her. She takes a sharp breath, hoping the frigid air will sober her up. Usually it helps, but tonight, there's no feeling, as though she's walked into a vacuum. There's no light, either. The scant illumination from the lanterns and flashlights inside is nothing against the plywood tacked to the windows. All that's left is a thin line of white leaking through the cracks. The rush of the river, so close, sucks the remaining air from Ása's lungs.

With trembling fingers, she slips her phone from her jacket pocket. There's the message, still waiting to be sent. She's already said so much, but she wants these to be the last words. She wants him to understand. She wants to hurt him, the way he's hurt her.

She's sick of thinking about it. And staring down at the bright screen is making her feel actually sick.

She presses send.

The relief doesn't come. Ása shoves the phone back into her pocket and steps forward, into the night. She'll go home and sleep this off. It will be better in the morning, when she wakes up new and free and probably so hungover she'll want to die, but at least she'll be alone.

She aims for the trees, for Óskar's car somewhere beyond, but her legs won't cooperate.

She can't find her balance. Her feet sink strangely into the fresh snow, sliding sideways or backward, so that she can't trust each foot step. That last drink—those last drinks—had been a mistake. She can see it now. Inside, with all the chaos, the unsteadiness had felt normal. Expected.

Everything she has done recently has been a mistake.

Her fingers touch the cold snow and there's pressure in the back of her eyes. When did she fall over? Acid fills her throat, but she swallows it down. If she starts vomiting now, she won't stop.

The world rights itself in slow, blurry stages. She has to get to the car. Óskar left the keys in the cupholder. She'll sit in there, take a minute. Warm up with the heater. She can wait for him or Lilja to follow her out. Either one of them can drive her back.

She's in the trees, making her way by feel more than sight, the noise of the party a distant murmur behind her. Here, the quiet throbs against her ears, the snow muffling even the harsh quality of her breathing. Which is why she doesn't hear it at first.

A voice.

Soft.

She thinks it's her own voice at first, she's whimpering under her breath. But the sound comes again, and it's not her, not her own blurry whisper telling her to move.

It's a man's voice.

Calling her name.

She walks faster, brushing her hands against the rough bark of the tree trunks as she goes. The voice presses closer. Louder. "What are you doing? Ása?"

There's a catch in her body, hurtling her forward. She's aware of sitting, of both hands freezing in the snow. She doesn't know how long she's been like this. She drank too much tonight. This isn't what she's used to. This is something beyond her body. She's hovering outside of herself, but there's no thought in the outside. Only the trees spinning round her and the vague sense of anger, but even that is draining away. She looks up into a beam of light.

There are hands in her armpits. Hoisting her back up to standing. She feels safe, because someone who cares about her is here to help her, but there's the whistling again. High-pitched and shrill, a teakettle screaming on the stove. She wonders if he can hear it, too.