Because someone might be alive. Someone might be trapped. Someone might be waiting for help that never comes if I decide to play it safe.
“Unit Three,” the radio crackles over a wave of static. “Visibility is dropping—”
“I know,” I mutter, leaning closer to the windshield. “I’m almost at the marker.”
The tires skid before the chains finally grab. The flag marking the trailhead whips violently in the wind, almost bending in half under the force of it. I pull the ambulance as far onto the shoulder as I dare. The engine growls in protest as I kill it and step out into the storm.
The cold hits like a punch to the lungs.
Snow blasts sideways into my face, stinging my eyes and numbing my cheeks before I even slam the door shut behind me.The wind is so sharp it feels surgical. I hunch into my coat, pull my hood tight, and start trudging up the slope.
“Hello?” I shout, though the wind snatches the sound immediately. “Silver Ridge EMT! If you can hear me—call out!”
No answer.
Just the howl of the storm and, beneath it, the low, unsettling after groan of an avalanche settling somewhere far above. My stomach knots. Avalanches never come alone. Once the snowpack destabilizes, the whole ridge becomes a sleeping dragon—one misstep away from waking.
Perfect place for someone to go wandering, apparently.
“Reckless idiot,” I mutter, teeth chattering as I fight my way through drifts that swallow my boots.
A few minutes later, my GPS pings softly in my pocket. I’m at the coordinates. Or as close as the storm will let me get. For a heartbeat, all I see is endless white—an unbroken blanket of snow that looks untouched, uncrossed, uncaring.
And then my light catches on something dark.
A shape. A shadow. A miracle or a nightmare—I can’t tell yet.
“Hey!” My voice breaks from the force of it. “HEY! Can you hear me?”
I drop to my knees beside the mound and start digging with gloved hands, snow burning cold against my wrists where my sleeves have ridden up. Clothing appears first—a jacket so frozen it hardly bends. Then a shoulder. Then a cheek, pale and ice-speckled.
“Oh God,” I whisper. “Come on… stay with me…”
I brush more snow aside, revealing a face—sharp features gone slack with cold, lashes frosted, lips tinged blue. His hair is stiff with ice. He looks carved from the snow itself.
Too long. He’s been here too long. I press two fingers to his neck and find a pulse. Faint, but there.
“Okay,” I breathe out, half in relief, half in panic. “Okay, you stubborn mountain goat, you’re not done yet.”
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even twitch. His eyelids flutter once, barely noticeable, like some distant instinct is still trying to keep him alive.
“Come on,” I murmur, sliding my hands beneath his arms. “Help me out here.”
He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He’s deadweight—tall, heavy, rigid with cold. But adrenaline is a miracle drug, and so is fear. I brace my boots deep into the snow and haul upward with every ounce of strength I have.
Moving him is like dragging a felled tree.
“God, sir,” I gasp, muscles trembling, “you could try to meet me halfway. Or at least pretend.”
His head lolls against my shoulder, breath barely fogging against my cheek.
Somewhere in the storm above us, thunder cracks—no, not thunder. Snow shifting again.
I push harder.
We stumble, slide, lurch our way toward the faint outline of the trail. My thighs tremble from effort. My gloves are soaked and numb. Every exhale feels like inhaling knives. But I keep going.
Because if I leave him here, he’s dead. And I refuse to lose someone tonight.
