About two miles in, the view of Upper Yosemite Falls renders me breathless. Silvery water plunges over the granite cliffs and thunders into the valley below, and I rest on a rock lost in the grandeur of it all as a distant rumble echoes closer.
Light continues to seep away, replaced by bruised clouds bleeding deep purples and blues. Memories of a similar color blooming across my ribs like a wash of watercolor, and the blend fading into uneven swirls of soreness, sweeps through my mind. I shiver.
Skin the fragile canvas that he paints …
I dig out my notebook. My chest tightens as I shuffle to a boulder on the edge of the trail, looking over the darkened valleybelow. Scribbling down the words striking me like a blow, I lose myself—submit to the muse some would say.
There isn’t a sense of joy. No elation. No success. Memories paralyze my mind as I slump over my notebook, hands red with cold.
I’m powerless and pray I don’t break.
Time passes, and when I look up from my messy handwriting, I’ve filled page after page in my notebook. My hands tremble and I turn them up, staring at my palms. I inhale, but it’s a wavering gasp that pivots into a shallow sob. With a glance around, I grab for my backpack and remove the crumpled paper bag with my blueberry muffin. Next, I unwrap the candle and matchstick before balancing the muffin on one of my tucked-in knees. Despite the crisp air at this elevation, the waft of sweet blueberries catches on the breeze, and my mouth waters. I press the candle into the muffin and nestle it into the soft center. Striking the match on a boulder, I cup a hand around the flame and watch it dance before carefully tapping it to the wick. The candle flickers in the wind, and I shield it the best I can.
More thunder cracks with a rumbling roar that shakes the ground, and I close my eyes. With a soft exhale, I blow out the flame, watching the wisp of smoke tangle up and out.
“Happy Birthday,” I whisper.
Chapter 4
Noah
The storm has been on our radar for several days, and when Friday arrives, most of us are on high alert. Thick clouds twist above Yosemite’s towering cliffs, unleashing the full force of rain. It comes down in torrents, turning the hiking trails into slick, treacherous paths. I squint through the downpour as I patrol the trailheads in my truck.
Max whines while pacing in the back seat, annoyed he’s been cooped up most of the day. The boy gets antsy when he can’t run.
The wet squelch of my rain boots rubs against the floormat below my feet as I adjust, leaning forward to get a better view between my flying windshield wipers. Most locals and avid hikers monitor the weather throughout the week, then plan accordingly. The tourists, novice hikers, or people who just plainwant to risk it—they’re the ones we’ll end up getting calls about.
As if on cue, there’s a crackle, and my radio squawks. “We’ve got a report of a hiker down on the Four Mile Trail. Unconscious, possible head injury. Anyone close?”
I slow, having just passed the trailhead during my patrol. I grip the steering wheel tighter, my pulse picking up speed.Did I miss something?I was right there seconds ago.
The Four Mile Trail—the name is deceptive because it’s notactuallyfour miles. With many switchbacks and narrow pathways, it makes the trail slippery with mud. Add in the pouring rain and limited visibility … damn.
Thunder rolls overhead as I pull a three-point turn and pick up my radio. “Dispatch, this is Ranger Sullivan. I’m 10-76 to Four Mile Trail.”
When I reach the parking area, Max paws at the window as I grab my rain jacket from the passenger seat and step out of the truck. With the sun all but disappearing, it’s chilly, and I tug the weatherproof shell around me while sideways rain stings the side of my face.
I open the back door for my emergency pack.
“Sitz.Bleib,” I command Max. In these conditions, Max can’t be out with me. I have no scent for him to help track, and if I need to administer any lifesaving care, I need to be able to focus.
Slinging my pack over my shoulder, I glance around for any other emergency units responding, but I’m the first on the scene. The other cars besides mine are a Jeep Wrangler and an old Ford wagon?—
Wait. There’s something about this car … a flicker of recognition tugs at my memory. This car looks familiar. The dent in the back bumper. The way the wooden paneling along the passenger side door is scratched, like the driver has been on the road, oroff-roadregularly. Ihaveseen it before. My pulse roars as something deep and instinctual flares to life.
Move. Now.
I shake my head and push harder, slipping on the mud-slicked trail but catch myself before I trip. The climb’s a struggle, with portions of the trail steep and unforgiving, but I don’t slow down. I can’t. Every second I lag could be one second too long.
I used to run ridgelines for fun—miles of sky, lungs on fire, the thrill of it all. Now? It’s instinct, not enjoyment. Replaced byintense conditioning, drills, and training to be first on the scene, first to serve, or first to bear the weight of what’s coming. I never leave my job at the station. I live in it, breathe it, cohabitate with it. Every report, every ticket, every rescue—it piles on like endless weight. I have no choice but to get stronger.
My body falls into a rhythm, muscles remembering even if my mind is racing ahead.What if it’s bad?What if they’re unconscious—or worse?I’ve seen broken bones, busted skulls, bodies that didn’t make it down the trails or cliffs. I’ve seen what panic looks like in a little boy’s eyes when he thinks he’s dying, or the relief in a scared woman’s tears when she realizes I’m there to help her. Every time, the fear crawls up my spine like it’s new.
That car in the parking lot …
My heart races as the trail elevates and becomes shrouded in mist and swirling rain. The storm’s frenzy obscures the normal magnetic views. Up ahead, a small figure bobs up and down, and as I approach, they’re jumping, waving their hands back and forth.
Closer, a woman I don’t recognize runs toward me, hands braced over the cap on her head as she tries to shield her face from the pelting rain. She’s wrapped from head to toe in expensive hiking gear. “Oh, thank God. She’s up here!”
