“You should let the medic finish his evaluation,” she says. “It’s important.”
“Noted.”
Her lips press into a flat line. “Okay then. Take care of yourself.”
She turns to leave, and for reasons I can’t explain, something in my chest pulls tight—like a thread straining but not breaking. I bite it back. She pauses at the doorway without turning around.
“And next time?” she says. “Try not to walk straight into an avalanche zone. I’d really prefer not to have to dig you out twice.”
Her voice carries warmth she doesn’t owe me. Warmth I don’t deserve. And it lands like a punch.
Then she’s gone, taking the softness with her, leaving only the echo of her footsteps and the cold bite of my own regret.
Campbell shuts the door gently. “She saved your life, you know.”
I lie back against the thin pillow, jaw tight. “I know.”
“Most people would at least try not to offend their rescuer.”
“I didn’t ask to be rescued.”
He sighs. “Doesn’t change the fact that you were.”
I close my eyes, anger simmering beneath my ribs, mixing with something I don’t want to name. The mountain didn’t take me. She dragged me back.
And I have no idea why that feels like failure.
Chapter Four
Ava
By the time the next morning rolls around, I’ve talked myself into pretending the avalanche never happened.
It’s a flimsy lie.
My alarm goes off at six, vibrating angrily across the nightstand. I smack at it until the buzzing stops, then lie there for a few seconds, staring at the hairline crack in my ceiling. Images from last night drift up like snow shaken loose from a tree branch: whiteout, buried shape, the dead weight of a stranger over my shoulder, a pair of storm-blue eyes glaring at me in the clinic like being alive was a personal insult.
You should’ve left me.
I push the memory away and drag myself out of bed. No time to sit around replaying conversations with a man who clearly wants nothing from the world except for it to stop trying.
Violet’s door is cracked open. She’s a lump under the blankets, headphones on, hair spilled across the pillow in a dark, tangled wave. I tap on the frame lightly.
“Vi. Time to wake up.”
She groans into the pillow. “Five more minutes.”
“Five more minutes turns into you skipping breakfast and me lecturing you about blood sugar,” I remind her. “Up. Now, please.”
“Bossy,” she mutters, but she kicks the covers back.
While she shuffles to the bathroom, I start coffee and pull the glucose meter and her logbook from the counter drawer. The kitchen is still dim, winter light barely pressing against thefrosted window. The heater rumbles in the vents, doing its tired best.
Violet pads in wearing fuzzy socks and a sweatshirt that saysSCIENCE > SLEEP. She flops into a chair and holds out her hand without being asked.
“Prick me, O Mighty One.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” I say, loading the lancet.
