Inside, shelves lined the walls—sleeping bags, tents, emergency supplies. I grabbed everything I could carry. Sleeping bag rated for extreme cold. Thermal blankets. Chemical heat packs. First aid kit. Emergency bivvy.
My hands moved fast, shoving gear into the biggest pack I could find. Too big, probably—the kind of pack that would slow a smaller person down. But I'd been hauling hay bales and fence posts since I was twelve. I could handle the weight.
My outer layers were already good. Mom had gone overboard when I'd told her I was going to school in Alaska—bought me a whole kit of cold-weather gear rated for temperatures I'd never expected to see. At the time, I'd thought she was being paranoid.
Now I was grateful.
I changed quickly, layering up. Base layers. Mid-layers. The jacket Mom had insisted on, bright blue and windproof. Boots that were probably not designed for actual mountaineering but were better than sneakers. I grabbed the crampons from themountaineering shelf and clipped them to my pack with a carabiner.
Not enough. I knew it wasn't enough. I didn't have an ice axe or any of the specialized gear a real climber would bring. I was going into the backcountry with borrowed supplies and borrowed knowledge and nothing but stubbornness to keep me alive.
But the alternative was staying here. Waiting. Hoping she came back.
That wasn't an option.
The library was quiet at mid-morning.
I moved through the stacks with purpose, scanning titles until I found what I needed—a thick book with a worn spine:Denali: A Climbing Guide. Maps in the back. Route descriptions. Everything a person would need to find their way up the mountain.
Or to find someone trying to climb it.
I read for twenty minutes, tapping my foot the whole time, knowing I needed to leave—but also knowing I needed a direction first. I tucked the book into my pack and headed for the exit. No one stopped me. No one asked questions.
The clock on the wall read 11:47 a.m.
Lumi had at least six hours on me at least. Probably more, if she'd left before dawn. She was smart, prepared, knew exactly where she was going.
I was none of those things.
But I was fast. And I was stubborn. And somewhere out there, in the cold and the white and the silence, she was alone.
That wasn't acceptable.
The boundary wall was easy to find—a low stone barrier marking the edge of campus. I climbed over it without hesitation, dropping into the snow on the other side.
The trees were thick, old growth, blocking most of the pale winter light. Snow lay heavy on branches overhead, muffling sound until the only thing I could hear was my own breathing and the crunch of my boots breaking through the crust.
I moved fast. Faster than was probably smart, burning energy I might need later. But every minute I wasted was another minute Lumi got further away.
The book said the standard route to Denali started in Talkeetna—a small town north of here, accessible by highway. From there, climbers flew to base camp on the glacier. But Lumi didn't have money for a plane. She was doing this solo, under the radar, which meant she'd be taking the long route.
Overland through the forest. North to the highway. Hitch a ride if she could, walk if she couldn't.
I followed the same path.
The first few hours were manageable.
The forest was dense but navigable, the terrain rolling but not steep. I fell into a rhythm—steps crunching, breath fogging, the weight of the pack settling into my shoulders like a familiar burden.
My mind kept circling back to Lumi.
I'd known something was different about her from the moment we'd met. The way she moved—efficient, aware. Theway she held herself—guarded, ready, never quite relaxing even when she smiled.
And the pull. That inexplicable pull that had drawn me to her like gravity, making me rearrange my schedule and memorize her patterns and sit on cold benches in the early morning just for a chance to see her.
I didn't understand it. Couldn't explain it. But I knew it was real. Knew it in my bones, in my blood, in the silent ache where the hum used to live.
She was out here somewhere. Alone. Walking toward something she wouldn't tell anyone about.
