Chapter 4 - The Abandoned Mill
The temperature gauge on the dashboard spiked into the red zone. The front-end impact with Julian’s truck had punctured the radiator, draining the coolant entirely. With a sickening rattle of metal against metal, the engine seized and died, coasting the dying car to a halt on the gravel shoulder beside an old timber mill that had been abandoned for a decade.
"Out of the car. Now," Mark commanded gently, not wanting to panic the children further. He pulled off his wet flannel jacket and wrapped it around Leo, who was shivering uncontrollably, his skin pale and lips tinged with blue. Clara climbed out, her little legs wobbling as her scuffed sneakers hit the muddy gravel.
"Daddy, I’m cold," Clara whispered. "My fingers won't move."
"I know, sweet girl. I know. Hold my hand. We’re going inside to find shelter and keep dry." Mark scooped Leo against his chest, tucking the boy inside his shirt to share body heat. He led Clara through a gap in the rusted chain-link fence surrounding the timber yard.
The main building of the mill was a cavernous structure of rotting cedar beams and corrugated iron roofing. Inside, the sound of the rain was amplified into a deafening roar. Shadows hung heavy in the corners. Mark led them to an old foreman’s office on the mezzanine floor—a dry, enclosed space with a heavy wooden door.
He set the children down on a pile of dry burlap sacks. Leo let out a weak whimper, closing his eyes. Mark checked the toddler’s pulse and breathing; both were shallow. Mild hypothermia was setting in rapidly.
"Clara, listen to me," Mark said, crouching down to her eye level and pressing his warm palms against her icy cheeks. "You are the bravest girl in the world. You protected your brother tonight. But I need you to stay awake, and I need you to keep rubbing his hands and feet while I look for something dry to wrap him in. Can you do that for me?"
Clara nodded solemnly, swallowing her tears. "I won't let him go to sleep, Daddy."
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Mark stepped out of the office to search the lower level for blankets or old canvas tarps. As he descended the rickety wooden staircase, the beam of an industrial flashlight sliced through the darkness from the broken doorway below.
Footsteps echoed on the wet concrete floor, followed by the familiar, cold voice of Amanda. "You always were predictable, Mark. Your truck's radiator fluid left a trail straight down the old logging road."
