"Throw a line!" she tried to yell, but her voice was a rasp. The cold was a living thing, climbing her bones. She was so tired. The root was slipping.
The bank gave way immediately.
"Don't let go. I've got you."
On solid ground, Skylar collapsed onto her hands and knees. The dog shook itself dry, then turned and licked her ear. She laughed—a wet, broken sound. Marcus ran up, shoving a waterproof mic toward her face.
He grinned. "Perfect. That's the headline." skylar snow all wet and in need
For ten minutes—or maybe a lifetime—the river tried to take them. Water poured over her head, filled her hood, plastered her blonde hair into dark ropes against her face. She coughed, spat, and held. The dog licked her chin, trembling.
The dog, by the way, was returned to its family by dawn. They named her Lucky. "Throw a line
"You're on in thirty seconds," he said.