“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For all of this. The rescue, the shelter, the…” She gestures vaguely. “Everything.”
“You owe me nothing.”
“I owe you everything, K.” Her eyes hold mine. “And I don’t know how to repay someone who saved me from a hellish death, but I’ll figure it out.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she’s already settling back against the wool, exhaustion pulling at her features.
“Sleep,” I tell her. “We have a long walk tomorrow.”
She nods, eyes already closing. “Wake me if another mountain lion shows up.”
“I will.”
But I know I will not need to. I will keep watch. Keep the fire bright.
Keep her safe until morning comes and we can begin the descent.
Outside, the mountain settles into deeper cold. No more sounds of prowling cats. No disturbances.
Just the two of us, and the night, and the promise of answers at dawn.
If we can reach them.
If her body holds.
If the mountain allows it.
Chapter 7
Mara
Once again, I wake to the smell of pine smoke and something cooking—gamey, unfamiliar, but my stomach doesn’t care. It growls loud enough that I’m grateful K isn’t in the cave to hear it.
Day three. I’ve been in this cave for two nights, and somehow I’m still kicking. Somehow, I’m sitting up without my chest screaming. Somehow, I’m considering the absolute insanity of trying to hike down a mountain today.
Movement at the cave mouth. K steps through, and my breath catches because he’s carrying—
“My boots.” The words come out strangled. “You have my boots.”
“I took them off when I was tending to your wounds.” He sets them down beside me along with my messenger bag—battered, singed at the edges, but intact. “And you had this when I carried you from the wreckage.”
I unzip the bag with shaking hands. My iPad, cracked screen but maybe salvageable. My external hard drive with all my backup footage. My spare power bank. Relief floods through me so sharp it stings.
“You also had this in your hand.” He passes me my phone, dead but possibly chargeable. “Even then, you would not release it.” Something that might be amusement flickers across his face.
“Oh, my God, my phone! That’s what I asked you for before.” Does he really have no idea what a freaking phone is? I clutch the bag to my chest as I stare at the dead screen. “I can’t believe—even unconscious, I was holding onto my tech. That’s either really dedicated or really pathetic.”
“Dedicated,” K says simply.
I examine the boots—my beloved Doc Martens, black leather scuffed from a year of wear but otherwise pristine. No char marks. No melted rubber. I turn them over in my hands, half-laughing. “These things survived a helicopter crash and an inferno. I should write a testimonial. ‘Doc Martens: Apocalypse-Proof Since 1960.’”
K tilts his head. “Apocalypse?”
“End of the world. Catastrophic destruction. You know…” I gesture vaguely at the boots. “The kind of thing that should’ve melted these but didn’t.”
He crouches beside me, studying the boots with that focused intensity he brings to everything. “They are… sturdy.”
“Sturdy. Right. That’s one word for ‘survived literal hellfire.’” I set them down, throat suddenly tight. “Thank you. For keeping these. For…” I gesture at the bag. “All of it.”
