“Yeah?”
“Are… you scared?”
Honesty is the only currency that matters.
“Yes,” I say. “But not of the mountain.”
Her breath ghosts against my neck. “Of what then?”
“Of losing you,” I say quietly. “Now save your strength. You can yell at me later for calling the storm an asshole.”
A faint hum—agreement or stubbornness—vibrates against me.
Every step is a negotiation with the mountain. My boots sink deep—to the calf, to the knee—snow grabbing at my legs like cold hands trying to drag me down. My thighs burn. My lungs burn. My arms shake with the effort of keeping her high enough that snow doesn’t spill into the jacket.
Wind hits us sideways, then from the front, then from behind—swirling in chaotic gusts that try to twist me off the road.
“Not a chance,” I grunt.
I can’t see the station yet. Can barely see ten feet ahead. So I count.
Thirty steps forward.
Pause. Breathe.
Check her. Keep going.
“How’re you doing?” I ask once, when my shoulders feel like fire.
“C-cold,” she mumbles.
“Stay with me.”
Somewhere above us, the mountain groans—a low, distant rumble. I freeze, muscles locking.
Avalanche language. A warning.
My legs go from burning to numb to burning again. Breath jagged. Violet heavier with every yard—not physically, but because fear adds its own weight.
Then—finally—a faint glow emerges through the white.
The ranger station.
I didn’t choose the direction consciously—instinct dragged us here. Toward light. Toward help.
“Almost there,” I tell her. “See that light? That’s where your mom gets to ugly-cry all over you.”
She makes a weak sound that might be a laugh.
I slog the last stretch. The path is churned—boots, paws, tires. Search teams. Ava is here somewhere, heart breaking.
Hold on, I think. Both of you.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Ava
The ranger station smells like coffee and wet wool and too many prayers held too tightly in too-small lungs.
