She was by the lake, with vague thoughts of hiding under one of the bridges—but her mind was full of fire, arrows, and shotguns, and everything swirled in her head until the thoughts became soup. A revenge attack, for the bathroom assault? That was Caspar, of course. But the fire? That was someone who knew she’d been underground. She winced as another spike of something in the ground tore her foot. She was walking now, damp with perspiration and freezing dew, and there was ice all around her. She wore a thin shirt and shorts, and that was all. She’d die if she didn’t find shelter. She thought of Sanchez. She’d hit him, hard! She’d punched her friend, she’d been out of control. And now she was alone and the cold was so deep, her teeth were chattering. Something cracked, off to her left—a stick or something—and she cried out, turning wildly and crouching. It was silent again. She had to get to London now, there was no debate. She had to keep moving and find a place to hide, then get to the phone box and the road.
