Damian turned from the window and met Abe’s eyes. A beat passed.
“No,” Abe said quietly. “We don’t.”
Daphne’s hand found his. “I want to stay. Here. With you. I want to perform. Freelance. Teach. Not company work.”
Abe kissed her palm. “Then that’s what you’ll do.”
Damian came inside, shut the door, and sank down, against the wall until his ass hit the floor. His breathing was ragged, face pale, hands trembling.
“You okay?” Abe asked Damian.
A faint nod.
Abe clutched the SAT phone and sat beside him. For a long moment, they said nothing. Just the three of them and the hum of the radio, the soft hush of snow outside.
“Thanks,” Abe said finally.
Damian gave the smallest nod.
Abe leaned his head back, eyes closed, the weight of everything pressing and lifting at once. They were broken, but at least they were broken together. And maybe that was enough.
The SAT phone chirped.
He answered, “Hello?”
“Abe! Thank God.” Ben, Abe’s older brother, had a voice that sounded rough with worry. “We got your beacon. There’s a chopper in the air now. Visibility’s crap, but you should hear them soon.”
Relief crashed through Abe. “Daphne’s stable. Damian’s with me. Alive, but hurt.”
A pause. Just breath on the line.
“I’m glad you found him,” Ben said. “I’ll tell the authorities. We’ll call off the search.”
Damian moved to the armchair near Daphne’s head. He didn’t speak, but he’d heard.
“We’re gonna be okay,” Abe said, voice thick. A promise to Ben. And to Damian. And to Daphne.
“Damn right you are,” Ben replied. “Hold tight. Help’s almost there.”
The line went dead.
Abe set the phone down, rested his head against the wall, and closed his eyes.
Twenty minutes later, outside, a faintwhup-whup-whuppulsed through the air.
He sprang for the door.
Damian stood beside him, swaying but steady.
A spotlight cut through the fog, sweeping the treetops before locking on to the clearing beside the cabin.
Daphne stirred, and Abe rushed to her, brushing a kiss to her temple. “Help’s here, sweetheart. Hang on.”
Damian crossed the room, shaky but determined, and helped lift her upright. Together, they guided her to the door.
Red and navy jackets cut through the snow, coming toward the cabin. Two medics carried a stretcher. One jogged ahead.
“Female, thirty,” Abe said. “Head wound. Suspected adrenal crash.”
