The Gradual Disappearance of Jane Ashland

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SHE HAS READ somewhere that this situation usually ends with people taking their clothes off. You get it wrong that final, fatal time and then, there you lie in your underwear, your bluish-white skin stretched tight and your eyeballs frozen solid, time passes and you become covered by a shroud of new snow that has to be gently brushed away by those who find you.

All she can see through the mist is a huge boulder just an arm’s length away, and if she leans her head a little to the left, the brightly colored tent looking like a moldy orange under its crust of frost.

She shouldn’t have lain down. But when she tries to raise her head, she realizes that her hair has got stuck in one of the countless Velcro pads on that state-of-the-art anorak, hugely expensive but still as cold as the heather beneath her, and she cannot find the energy to do anything about it.

Now, while she is still conscious, she must lock her fingers in a dramatic pose.

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