Rain Turns to Snow

It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark.

That was the first thing Rain had noticed when she woke up.

Rain pauses, frowning, blinking at the open sky above her in confusion.

Wait… What? That’s not right. She thinks to herself, sitting up and looking around, face still drawn in confusion and now pinched in concern. Did I knock myself out, and now I’m in some kind of fever dream? Did I get kidnapped or something?

She hadn't gone to bed on frigid ground, covered in snow, without a roof over her head. Her home was warm, too warm at times, with a sturdy roof that had been redone recently. Unlike the wooden floors that weren't fitted properly, so everything fell into the cracks, and then there are the mismatched walls of green, yellow, and even the dreaded beige that every old person thinks is the height of home decor.

No, this was not her home. Rain stands on shaky legs, snow in her dark brown hair as it fell in soft, slightly curled waves over her shoulders and down her upper back. Her pale skin tinged red in the cold, her freckles easily seen now even under her glasses. Her t-shirt is thin but at least dark, so it will soak up as much of the dying sun as it can. Her shorts are in the same predicament, and she didn't have shoes or underwear. She'd been in bed, after all. Who wears more than they must to bed?

She hugs herself tight and looks around, thanking her own stupidity that she'd at least been wearing her glasses when she passed out in bed while working on her laptop.

Where am I? How did I even get here? She thinks to herself.

Rain breathes. In and out, taking it in. The forest, the trees, the bushes, the branches, the clearing just beyond her sightlines that she's not going to waste valuable time looking at.

Rain does not panic. Panic, in her experience, does nothing but waste valuable time and energy. It confuses the mind, flusters the consciousness, and pushes people to make snap decisions. Through her own trials and tribulations, Rain has learned how to adjust and recenter, namely through breathing exercises. So, instead of panicking and floundering and getting herself killed, she keeps breathing. Slow and shallow at first as the cold bites at her weak lungs.

Okay, she thinks, letting out a frosting breath. This is bad. But bad is not done for. First priority has got to be shelter and raising my temp.

She looks down at herself again. At least she had enough chub that food wouldn't be a worry for the first week if nothing else. Her bare feet were already stinging, the snow numbing her toes in a way that would turn dangerous fast if she let it. All she’s got are her shorts, a T-shirt, and her glasses. That's it. She didn't even have lint in her pockets. But at least she knew what she had: nothing of any actual use in this situation.

Her arms squeeze tighter around her waist as she tries to hold in the shivers wracking through her body, and she forces herself to start moving before standing still becomes her permanent status.

Rain needed shelter. Strong winds can turn hot Summer days into nice, cool ones, and cold Winter days into a hellscape of frostbite and hypothermia.

As Rain began to move, eyes darting around, pushing up her glasses that the wind seemed determined to drag down her face, she took in the world.

It was like the forests back home in the Winter, snow muffling every sound, branches reaching toward the dimming sky in reflection of their own roots—pines, conifers, she thinks, or something like that.

She remembers some stuff from movies and shows she watched about what you can do with pine needles. Needles shed snow, so it slides right off them. The tree branches could be used for bracing, with the needles providing insulation as well. If she were careful and packed it right, snow could be her friend rather than her enemy.

She goes after the easier stuff first, grabbing fallen branches half-buried beneath the snow. They would snap if she bent them, but they were dry enough. She drags them together and then takes off her shirt to bind them together, dragging them as one across the ground where she had decided she'd set up camp. They leave uneven tracks, one of them dipping in and out of the snow from how she was dragging them. It looked sort of funny from afar. The bark of the branches and the pulling rubbed her hands raw until they burned. The cold chills them, pale flesh a bright pink as her unworked hands oscillate between numbness and burning pain. Rain keeps going, untying her red shirt and releasing the bundle. She put her t-shirt back on, brushing off the dirt and snow from the anti-hero emblem on the front. She's already starting to hurt, but she didn't have the luxury of stopping before she was done. So, she tucks her hands under her arms, stealing whatever warmth her torso had for her aching hands.

She's on her knees once she has enough material, her face screwed in concentration and purposeful ignorance of her pain.

At least, I'm sitting now, she thinks, pushing the snow, shaping the igloo, placing the branches where she needs them.

It wasn't a real igloo; she doesn't have the strength, resources, knowledge, or time for that, but it's close enough to work.

The dome is low, barely big enough for her to crawl in and curl up under, but it works. Rain had packed the snow thick until her skin broke, a trickle of blood where it happened. The branches were embedded like bones, keeping it upright. She put a hole in the top anyway.

The only thing keeping her sane, keeping her from panicking at the sheer insanity that was this situation, was the rhythm of it. The method of putting it all together, of having a plan and executing it, kept the fear from crawling up her throat and out of her mouth.

Snow line. Pack. Lay branch. Pack again. Repeat until the dome is done. Pine boughs are layered around both the inside and outside for insulation; the outside ones were packed with snow.

She's shaking, her legs threatening to give out beneath her as she finishes the top, that sharp pain she knew like an old nemesis striking right through her like lightning, but lasting far longer. Even as tears blur her sight, she makes sure to give it one last look over before crawling inside. The igloo was barely taller than her stomach, but the difference between the inside and outside was immeasurable to her exhausted body. The wind was gone, disappeared behind the snow of her new little home. Her glasses became hazy just from the fog of her breath in the cramped space. For the first time since she woke up in the snow, she felt something like relief.

Rain sighs deeply, leaning back against the curved wall of the igloo, looking up at the fire hole she'd made, legs sprawled out as much as they can be in the small space.

Fire, she thinks, exhaling slowly through her nose.

Fire is much harder, but necessary for her survival.

She remembers her mother's voice, calm and firm, worn hands guiding smaller, more delicate ones. Rub for friction to spark the flames. Dry wood that'll light easily beneath tinder that wants to burn, guarded from the cold. Neverending patience. A body that cooperates.

Rain looks at her hands. Once soft and smooth, a light pink and pale flesh, had become red and angry, cracked already, and trembling faintly. She looks at her legs, the familiar, creeping ache in her lower back sharpening into something mean. The sciatica is awake now, sending heat down her hip and thigh, her calf a hollow, useless echo of muscle that never quite learned how to work again after a chunk was ripped out. Her ankles throb, swollen and furious, as if personally offended by the terrain.

She laughs once under her breath, sharp and humorless.

Of course, she thinks. Nothing has ever been easy. Why would this be?

She leans her head back against the snow wall and closes her eyes for a moment, just the one, then snaps them open again. No sleeping. Not yet. Not here.

"If I die," she mutters quietly to herself, brow furrowed in determination, "it will not be because I sat down and waited. Mama didn't raise a quitter. She raised a complainer."

She crawls back out of the igloo, slower this time, careful with her aching body. The cold slaps her again, piercing through what little clothes she had, but she's moving now, and that's kinetic energy; that's heat. She scans the ground for something long and sturdy, something she can lean on without it snapping under her weight.

A fallen branch catches her eye—thick, mostly straight, bark rough enough for grip. She tests it with her foot, then her hand. Solid. Good enough.

She picks it up and plants it beside her like a promise.

One problem at a time, Rain tells herself, setting her jaw and starting forward again. Shelter: done. Fire: next.

She will figure this out. She has to.