Orit could be my only hope.
I inch the car forward, and the shape solidifies.
Oh my god, it’s a cabin!
It’s small, rustic, and snow-covered, but definitelyreal.
"Thank you," I whisper to any deity listening.
I drive as close as I can before parking, then grab my purse and emergency bag. Getting from the car to the front door is like wading through chest-high Arctic ice. The snow isdeep, the wind is vicious, and my practical winter boots—which seemed so smart in Denver—are immediately soaked through.
By the time I reach the tiny porch, I'm gasping, my lungs burning with cold, my face so numb I can barely feel it.
I try the door handle, expecting it to be locked.
But itturns.
And the door swings open so easily I practically fall inside, then shove it closed behind me to cut off the banshee shriek of the wind.
I lean against the door, panting. The cabin wasunlocked. Just...open and available, like someone left it that way on purpose.
Then I notice the small wooden sign hanging beside the door, the words burned into it in careful letters:
EMERGENCY SHELTER
TRAVELERS WELCOME
PLEASE RESTOCK WHAT YOU USE
This isn't someone's private vacation home. It’s one of those mountain shelters Sadie mentioned once when she was telling me about how people in rural areas look out for each other.These cabins sometimes serve as emergency camps during bad weather.
I send a silent thank you to these unknown, generous strangers who own this cabin as I take stock. It’s one space, basically, with a small room off to the side equipped with a composting toilet. There’s a kitchen area in the corner, table with two chairs, a couch that's seen better days. And—yes—a fireplace with a neat stack of wood beside it.
A pile of quilts are folded on the couch, while canned goods are visible in the open cabinet, along with matches, candles, and a first aid kit.
Someone has stocked this place thoughtfully.
And I’m grateful.
Because my phone is dead now (fully, completely dead) and even if it weren't, there's no signal. The bars have been gone since before the GPS died. I'm truly cut off.
But I'malive.
And I'm going to do my best to stay that way.
Ten minutes later, I've got a fire crackling in the fireplace, my wet coat and boots drying nearby, and I’m wearing some oversized sweat pants and a T-shirt I found in a dresser. I have one of the quilts wrapped around me like a burrito.
The cabin warms slowly as I find instant coffee in the cabinet and heat water in a battered kettle over the fire.
It tastes like burnt dirt, but it'shot, and that's all that matters.
For the first time in what feels like hours, I let myself breathe.
No cell service means no one knows where I am, but Sadie wouldn’t be worried yet. I’m not due to arrive until tomorrow.
And honestly? There’s something almost peaceful about this…just me, the fire, and the storm raging outside like nature’s white noise machine.
The peace doesn't last long, though.
