“Great, great,” Brian says, waving a hand. “Thanks. And hey—maybe keep your feet on the safe side of the mountain from now on, yeah?”
I grunt something that probably counts as acknowledgment and grab my tools. Anything to get out of the lobby before someone asks for a dramatic retelling of how I almost became a snow-flavored corpse.
But when I reach the front doors, I hear two ski instructors whispering near the rental counter.
“—they said she dragged him uphill. Uphill.”
“No way. Guy’s huge.”
“She’s stronger than she looks.”
“And nicer. She brought soup when Laney was sick last month. And toys for the kids’ drive. She’s like… sunshine in EMT form.”
I stop walking. Just for a second.
Sunshine.
It hits something inside my chest I thought had gone numb permanently.
I’m irritated by how much it irritates me.
Why the hell does anyone need to talk about her that way? Why does it matter? She did her job. I happened to be the unlucky bastard she dragged out of the snow. End of story.
Except it wasn’t, because the moment I let myself picture her kneeling over me—cheeks windburned, lashes dusted white, breath fogging between us—my heartbeat shifts, betrays me.
I shoulder past the rental counter and head outside, needing air, needing distance, needing noise that doesn’t sound like her laugh the night before when she said something sharp and sarcastic to Tom the ranger.
The cold helps. A little. Not enough.
By the time I’m back in my cabin that evening, the sun has fallen behind the ridge. The sky is a bruised navy, heavy with more snow. My hands shake when I lock the door behind me, and I have to breathe slowly through the wave of frustration that follows.
Nightmares started clawing at me again last night—worse than usual. The kind where I wake up gasping, soaked in sweat, sureI’m still in the overturned car with Emily’s hand slipping out of mine.
I know what the clinic doctor would recommend: therapy, support groups, medication.
I know what I’ll actually do: nothing.
The only thing that ever quieted the grief was sheer exhaustion. So I work, and walk, and fix things until my body gives out before my mind can drag me backward.
Tonight is no different. I put my coat back on, tie my boots, and head out into the cold.
The mountain air knifes into my lungs. It’s dark enough that porch lights glow like lonely fireflies. I take the back path through the pines, hoping the rhythmic crunch of snow beneath my boots will settle me.
It doesn’t.
The wind whistles through branches like a warning. Far off, the frozen lake groans. Shadows shift between tree trunks.
Every sound feels sharp. Every breath feels loud.
I try to focus on the path—on the burn in my calves, on the sting of air across my face—but my brain won’t let me.
It keeps circling back.
Not to the avalanche. Not to the lodge. Not to the whispers about Ava being some kind of local saint.
But to her voice.
Don’t fall asleep.
