I paced the narrow aisles between the frozen racks, back and forth, rubbing my arms, keeping the lights on and the blood moving, while the temperature display on the wall counted downward into numbers no living body is meant to endure — well past freezing, and then far, far past it, toward a cold that kills in minutes.

I will not pretend I was brave in there in any way that felt like bravery.

I was terrified, and in agony, and utterly alone.

But underneath all of it ran a single thought, harder and colder than the room, and it kept my feet moving when everything else in me wanted to lie down: not my babies.

He does not get my babies.

I will walk until I die on my feet before I let him freeze my children in their sleep. It was not courage, exactly.