Even though it’s almost dark, we don’t rush back to camp. I’m so sick of running.

Jim slips on a patch slick with February refreeze, and I catch his arm. He smiles warmly. “Useless,” I sneer, to make the light go out in his eyes.

Near camp, we hear moaning from inside the tent. I throw the flap back and Penny and Don scramble out of each other’s arms, wild and guilty as startled deer.

“What are you doing?” I can barely talk around the rising panic. “How long? How long?”

“Since you left,” she mumbles.

“It’s been hours! Your pheromones must be a mile high by now—”

The hunting cry pierces the air.

“GO!” I scream, and then we’re all fighting free of the tent, crawling and stumbling through the cold. Behind us, the cupid comes in fast and low, keening, wings smashing dead branches to splinters.

I swear Penny cries out before the arrow hits her chest.

If she dies quickly I don’t see it, because I’m running, running, running, and once again the fear and the fatigue are embracing me like a long-lost lover.