Haven’t done one of these for a few weeks, so why not? I actually managed enough wordage to meet my Camp Nano goal, so I’ll post a bit of my last scene (not the book’s last scene–I’ve still got a ways to go on that).
(Oh, and for those of you curious about our rabbit friend–he’s been coming by and keeping our lawn nicely trimmed. He’s also pretty friendly–came right up to my daughter as she lay in her hammock and allowed her to take some pictures :)).
Onto the teaser:
She pushes it open. A drift of new snow falls onto the floor, and I shiver as a blast of icy wind cuts through my clothing. She puts a hand on the back of my neck and pushes me so that I’m gripping the ledge, half my body outside, my feet just brushing the floor inside. My voice comes out, cracked and high. “Sierra…”
“Take the branch.”
I see what she’s talking about—a large thick-limbed tree, its bark dusted with white, leans towards the window. I grip the closest branch and pull myself out, Sierra gripping the back of my jeans and hefting me up and out. I scramble forward until my whole weight’s on the branch, the limb tilting dizzily downward. I close my eyes for a moment, the cold air numbing my face, my hands.
“Move it. Come on.”
I pull myself along, gingerly. If I get to the trunk, there’ll be handholds and footholds—it’s not like a palm. But the branch seems too slim to support us both, and I make the mistake of looking down, at the two story drop onto ground below. It’s covered lightly in snow—grimly I figure that if I do slip and tumble, that the snow’ll provide some sort of cushion. Maybe not enough to prevent my breaking half a dozen bones, but sufficient to prevent death. Maybe.
“Move it,” Sierra gasps. I wonder if she’s looked down, wonder what would happen if I lash back with my foot and send her tumbling to the ground. As if she knows what I’m thinking, a hard hand wraps around my ankle.
“Don’t even think about it.”
So I don’t. I keep skimming forward until I can wrap my arms around the thick trunk. Behind me I feel the warmth of Sierra’s body, her breath against my neck.
“Now we’re going to climb down. Slowly.”
“What happened to Jared?”
She doesn’t answer for a second. Then, “I don’t know.”
My heart lifts. “He didn’t drown?”
“Like I said, I don’t know.” Something jabs me in the back—given the sharpness, the sudden needle-dart of pain, I know what it is. “Now climb.”