The second night was colder than the first.

Leya didn't know if it was cold or not, or if her body had just decided to quit trying to manage anything. She was mounded under blankets on the wooden floorboards, her scarf tightened around her, armory-fashion, but it wasn't even in the running for warm enough.

Her lips were parched. Her skin was damp.

And in the middle of her stomach—nothing.

Even the pain had started to fade away.

And maybe that was the most lethal splinter of ...