She stopped just below the rise, nervously adjusting her shield. The bridge of her nose was starting to hurt; whiteout suits weren’t designed to be worn more than a few hours. How many days ago had she left the Dome? Did days even exist out here?
She sighed and watched a flock of frostlings whirl above the lone tree on the ridge. They settled quickly, one or two fluttering up again as if squabbling over a perch. She glanced from the tree to the track before her and stabbed her pole viciously into the packed snow under her snowshoes. Just one hour couldn’t hurt. Under the tree would be a welcome rest from the endless white.
She trudged ahead, trying to ignore the burning in her thighs. How long? The tree was just on the ridge, but distance was deceptive out here in the White.
She wondered if anyone would look for her. A wry grimace stretched against the irritating shield. After the shouting match in the precinct over her report on the tracks, they might be relieved if she disappeared. Even if they did search, they would never find her in whiteout gear. She would find out what, or who, else was out here in the White. One way or another, she would find them.
The Word Worker 