My phone buzzes.
I nearly drop it.
RANGER TOM:We’re mobilizing teams now. Stay inside. Keep your door unlocked. If she comes home, let us know immediately.
A strangled sound escapes my throat. A sob. A laugh. Something in between.
I reply with trembling thumbs:I’m an EMT. I can help.
Blue bubbles appear—then vanish.
Appear—then vanish.
Then:
Stay in the cabin. We need a central point. I’ll send someone to check in.
Stay in the cabin. Stay inside. Stay still.
Everyone keeps telling me to stay.
And every part of me is screaming to run.
Minutes pass—or hours—or seconds—I can’t tell anymore. I pace. I pray. I curse every snowflake in existence.
My training insists I shouldn’t let panic rule me.
My heart insists panic is the only thing keeping me upright.
I try calling Jax again. Try calling Ranger Tom again.
Nothing. Nothing.
The storm has decided silence is the only language that matters.
Finally—I snap.
I grab my keys. My coat. My flashlight.
“I have to try,” I say to no one.
But I can’t go into the woods alone. Visibility is near zero. If I lose the road, I’ll become the second rescue, not the rescuer.
So I make a choice:
The Ranger Station.
It’s close enough that I can reach it. It’s where every volunteer and search dog will be heading. It’s where someone will know something — anything — about where she might have gone.
It’s the only place I can do something.
I sigh a single prayer into my scarf, tasting salt and fear:
Please let him find her. Please let him bring her home. Please let this storm give her back.
Then I step into the white.
The wind nearly knocks me flat, claws at my coat, rips tears from my eyes — but I go anyway.
