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Sorrel
The thing about hypothermia is that it sneaks up on you. Imagine the politest serial killer in the world. That’s hypothermia. Because one minute you’re fine, collecting soil samples like the badass independent researcher you are. And the next? Your fingers don’t work and you’re pretty sure your brain is freezing solid because you just watched three months of dissertation data vanish.
My backup drive corrupts with a cheerful little error message that might as well read “Congratulations, you’re royally screwed baby girl!”
And guess what?
My GPS decidesnowis the perfect time to stop working.
I glance at the temperature gauge on my equipment.
Forty-two degrees below freezing.
And dropping fast.
“My first solo winter collection,” I mutter through chattering teeth, watching my breath mist. “And I’m going to return empty-handed. Like some first year student who can’t handle basic field conditions.”
The wind picks up, cutting through my supposedly weatherproof layers like they’re made of tissue paper. Which, given my budget, they might as well be.
Storm clouds are building way faster than the forecast predicted, because of course they are.
The universe has clearly decided that Sorrel Silva’s humiliation and untimely death is the entertainment of the day.
I should finish collecting samples.
I should stay out here and salvage something from this disaster.
I should prove that I can handle this.
But my core temperature is dropping. I can feel it in the way my thoughts are getting sluggish, the way my movements are becoming uncoordinated.
I’ve studied enough cold-weather physiology to know I’m entering dangerous territory.
When your brain freezes into a brainsicle, you know you’ve been outside for far too long...
I scan the trees, and spot it.
A massive structure about a mile away, all glass and timber. It shouts obscene wealth. My stomach churns with instant resentment even as I calculate whether I can make it that far.
Pride or survival?
I choose survival, because I’m not an idiot. Or maybe I am, and just don’t know it yet.
It’s slow going. The snow buries my legs to the knees with each step. My feet don’t want to cooperate, and with that biting wind, I’m starting to wonder if I can still feel my face. Well, on the bright side, at least it hasn’t started snowing.
Yet.
The trees close in around me, a dense wall of Engelmann spruce and subalpine fir that keeps blocking my view of that ridiculous house. And I lose sight of it completely at least half adozen times, which would be fine except my sense of direction is apparently the first casualty of mild hypothermia. I overshoot the mark. Course correct. Overshoot again.
Excellent navigational skills, Sorrel. Really showcasing that PhD-level competence here.
By the time I actually reach the front door, I’m not just cold anymore. I’m exhausted, disoriented, and pretty sure I’ve added an extra half mile to what should have been a straightforward trek because I kept zigzagging through the forest like a drunk person playing hide-and-seek with a building.
I’m shaking so hard I can barely press the doorbell. My finger slips off twice before I manage it. Then I just stand there, my teeth chattering like crazy, miserable and already dreading whatever conversation is about to happen.
No answer.
