Coach Reeves found me there one morning, halfway up a difficult route, chalk dusting my fingers.
"You're here early," she said.
"Couldn't sleep."
"That route's rated for advanced climbers."
"I know."
She watched me finish—watched me navigate the overhang that had defeated three upperclassmen the day before, watched me find holds that shouldn't have existed, watched me top out without hesitation.
When I came down, she was still there.
"Where'd you learn to climb like that?"
"The Tatra Mountains."
Reeves nodded slowly, something calculating in her expression.
She let me go. But I felt her watching as I gathered my things and headed for the showers.
Wilderness First Aid became my favorite class.
Not because of the content—I knew most of it already. Gregor had drilled emergency medicine into me since I was old enough to hold a bandage. But Boone was thorough, and thorough meant details. Details I could use.
"Mr. Boone." I caught him after class on Thursday, notebook in hand. "I had a question about the hypothermia protocols."
"Shoot."
"You mentioned that rewarming too quickly can cause cardiac arrest. But what about in a solo situation? If you're alone and you start showing symptoms, what's the protocol?"
He tilted his head, curious. "Interesting question. Most training assumes you have a partner."
"Most situations don't."
"Fair point." He leaned against his desk, settling into teaching mode. "Solo hypothermia management is tricky. The key isrecognizing symptoms early—before your cognitive function degrades. Once you're confused, you can't help yourself. So you monitor constantly. Set alarms if you have to. Check your fingers, your toes, your reaction time. The moment something feels off, you stop and address it."
I wrote it down. "And if you can't stop? If stopping means dying anyway?"
Boone's eyes sharpened. "That's a different question."
"It's a realistic one."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "If you're in a situation where stopping means dying and continuing means dying slower, you focus on buying time. Vapor barriers. Chemical heat packs against major arteries. Keep moving if you can—motion generates heat. And you hope like hell someone's coming for you."
"What if no one's coming?"
"Then you survive anyway." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "That's what humans do, Miss Orlav. We survive things we shouldn't. It's our best and worst quality."
I thanked him and left.
That night, I added vapor barriers to my mental checklist. Chemical heat packs. Timer alarms for cognitive monitoring.
The list was getting long.
James noticed.
Of course he noticed. He noticed everything about me—a fact that was both infuriating and, in moments I refused to examine too closely, comforting.
