Whitefish River the wires got the best of him

The miles pass in a blur, and the wintry air has chilled and congealed the blood in her fur by the time she forces her limbs to stop moving — just so she can breathe for a moment. The world is bright and blurred, and she can hear her own ragged breathing as if from a distance. The sound is harsh and foreign, though she distantly connects it with the stinging cold in her throat and chest. She blinks rapidly, struggling to focus her vision on something, anything, but the gleam of the snow is painfully bright.
Suddenly the world is spinning and she nearly loses her balance, cursing under her breath as she struggles to keep upright. She grasps desperately for some kind of coherent thought, finding only panicked fragments. It occurs to her that she's hurt — but she doesn't feel hurt. She doesn't feel anything, actually, save a vague sort of ache in her lungs and eyes. That can't be good, she thinks, sinking slowly back onto her haunches as the gravity of the situation dawns on her fully. The hysteria is slowly leaving her, but in its place there's a terrifying, icy calm. The yearling has never been the type to shy from the consequences of her decisions, and she sees clearly now where this leads. A forgettable death by some forgettable river — fitting, perhaps, for the girl who could never hold onto anything of meaning.