“Search One,” base crackles. “We got a partial from caller’s voicemail. Male, late twenties, thin build, light jacket. Said he lost the trail near a ledge where he could see the river.”
“Phantom ledge,” Axel says.
The ridge throws a dozen false ledges at you: seductive, scenic, deadly when ice turns honest rock mean. I nod and push harder.
Static again, then Cole’s voice from below us. “Two minutes behind you. Watch your step. Wind’s gusting.”
At switchback six, the trees open like a curtain, the world beyond suddenly too big. Phantom River glints far below, a dark vein cutting white skin. The ledge we want is off-trail, a short scramble that’s exactly the sort of short scramble hikers take when they think a better photo is worth it.
“Hear that?” Axel says, breath a little sharper.
I freeze. For a second there’s only wind and a raven’s rough complaint. Then—faint. A thin, ugly sound that doesn’t belong to the mountain.
“Help!”
We move as one.
The scramble is crusted snow over rock, slick enough to make my stomach drop. Axel tests each hold like he’s negotiating with the mountain. I follow. I taste metal in the back of my throat; adrenaline does that sometimes. The cry comes again, closer now, frayed—the sound of a body that’s deciding it’s tired of trying.
We round a jut of granite and find him.
He’s curled on a shelf the size of a kitchen table, one foot jammed under a rock, jacket too thin, hat gone. His cheeks are mottled in that hypothermia-purple I hate. His eyes go wide when he sees us, then wet in a way that feels like a punch.
“Hey,” I say, dropping to my knees before the word is even out. “I’m Savannah. This is Axel. You’re okay. You did the right thing yelling.”
Axel anchors the line to a stubby pine and clips in, body between our patient and the void without thinking. He always knows where gravity wants to take you and sticks himself in the way.
“Name?” I ask, hands already moving: gloves off, skin contact to his neck, counting his pulse, checking breathing, scanning for bleeds.
“Evan,” he says, teeth chattering so hard the word comes in pieces.
“Evan, hi. How long have you been here?”
“D-don’t know. P-phone died.”
“Okay.” I peel back his jacket, hate what I see—sweat damp where his layers failed him, skin cold and clammy. I strip my own outer gloves and slide warm packs into his armpits, his groin, the places you buy core heat with minutes if you’re lucky. “Ax, his foot.”
Axel crouches, big hands careful, voice even. “Gonna touch your boot, Evan. Give me a yes.”
“Y-yes.”
Axel palpates the ankle with surgeon patience. “Feels trapped, not broken. You’re going to insult me with how strong you are when you stand.”
A ghost of a laugh rips out of Evan and dies quick. His eyes skitter to the drop. He swallows. I lean in, blocking his view with my shoulder.
“Look at me,” I say, steady. “What’s your favorite breakfast?”
He blinks. “Wh-what?”
“Favorite breakfast, Evan. Go.”
“Pan—pancakes.”
“Good man.” I slide a foil blanket behind his back, my body heat bleeding into him through the thin barrier. “Axel makes excellent pancakes. It’s disgusting.”
Axel’s mouth curves without leaving his focus. “I do. Wild blueberry and cinnamon. You’ll hate how much you love them.”
Evan breathes, a ragged inhale, a better exhale. His hands stop clawing the snow. The tremors still shake him, but now they have rhythm. Panic surrenders to the simple animal job of staying warm.
