She keeps walking, thankful she can remember how to place one foot in front of the other. Her steps are measured, stiff, like her legs are strapped with heavy leather. In the distance she sees more houses. Where am I?

The air gets colder with each of her labored steps. The road in front of her takes a sharp right turn so she follows it, avoiding the patches of ice beginning to form around her. She glances to her left and sees in the distance a barn, more of a wooden shack, not too far from the road. I’m freezing.

The barn is made almost entirely of wooden slats, some broken, others are missing. The front door is intact, but it is hanging on one rusty hinge. The door creeks. The cold wind blows its weathered oak planks making it sway just so. The other hinge is at her feet. She slowly steps inside with her right foot while grabbing the door with her bruised left hand. The door is heavier than she thought and it was a struggle to keep it open while working her frigid body inside. Finally. Warmth!