He gives me a look that’s somewhere between amused and exasperated. “We buy lithium batteries like everyone else, Sorrel. There’s no secret billionaire electronics store where everything runs forever.”
“Well there should be.” I’m doubling down on this absolutely ridiculous argument because apparently morning-after-sex brain has destroyed my filter. “You have ahelicopter pad. You have wine that costs more than my tuition. But your satellite phone dies like some crappy smartphone from 2015?”
“Yes. Shocking as it may seem, the laws of thermodynamics apply to rich people, too.”
“That’s so disappointing,” I mutter. “What’s even the point of having obscene wealth if you can’t defy basic physics? Wait, what about your laptop?”
He’s already pulling it out, hitting the power button with increasing aggression. “Also dead.” He looks at me. “Yours?”
I actually laugh. “My laptop battery has been functionally dead since 2019. I have to keep it plugged in constantly or it dies within ten minutes.” I wave at the very not-plug-in-able house around us. “So yeah. Not happening.”
He considers for a moment. “The generator. If there was ever a time to use it--”
“It’s now. Yeah.” He grabs a remote starter, presumably for the generator, from the mantle on the fireplace and presses a button. He tilts his head, listening.
“I don’t hear anything,” I say.
“Neither do I,” he agrees. He flicks one of the light switches. Nothing. “Shit. We’re going to have to go out there.”
“Potty break and snack first,” I announce.
I head to the guest bathroom, and then meet him in the kitchen for a quick breakfast of cashews and macadamia nuts and French press coffee. By the time we bundle up, it’s a little after noon.
We head outside into the most beautiful apocalypse I’ve ever seen.
The sun is shining. The sky is blue. The mountains glitter.
And while itlookslike a winter wonderland, looks can certainly be deceiving, because with every step we sink thigh-deep into the snow, and we have to fight our way forward like we’re wading through the world’s most beautiful quicksand.
Also the silence is almost creepy. No wind. No storm sounds. Not even birds. Just this oppressive quiet broken only by our labored breathing and the squeak of snow compressing under our weight.
Nature’s way of saying “Hey, remember that five-day blizzard that tried to murder you? Here’s the evidence.”
“Christ,” Gregory mutters beside me, nearly losing his footing. “How deepisthis?”
“Four feet minimum.” I’m doing that awkward high-step march thing, lifting my knees like I’m in the world’s slowest, coldest marching band. “Maybe more in the drifts. The snow-to-liquid equivalent ratio in this storm was probably insane.”
He gives me a look.
“Sorry,” I tell him. “Nerd brain. It means we gota lotof snow.”
We continue trudging through the snow to the generator shed and I know something’s wrong before we even get close. The roof overhang has partially collapsed, the ice and snowbuildup from the five days of storm apparently created a structural failure that would make any engineer weep.
“No no no.” Gregory rushes forward, yanking open the shed door.
The smell hits us immediately. Diesel fuel. Overwhelming and acrid.
He’s staring at empty tanks and fuel-soaked snow with the expression of a man watching his empire crumble. Which, given his recent scandal, might be a familiar feeling.
“Five days,” I whisper, looking at the destroyed shed and leaked fuel. “The storm lasted five days and this is what’s left.”
“I should have checked sooner.” His voice is tight. Angry. Mostly at himself. “I should have--”
“Hey.” I step in front of him because apparently proximity to Gregory Falk has destroyed my sense of appropriate personal space. My gloved hand finds his chest, feeling his heart hammering under all those expensive layers. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”
When did I become the optimistic one in this relationship?
Wait.
