Ava snorts softly into her mug. “You make it sound like fireworks.”
“They kind of are,” Violet argues. “Snow explosions. Very controlled. Very science-y.”
I chuckle. “We’ll calibrate them again this afternoon. But no, we’re not triggering avalanches just to ‘see what happens.’ That’s how you get grounded until summer.”
She rolls her eyes in exaggerated agony. “Ugh. Responsibility is ruining my life.”
Ava pats her knee. “Welcome to adulthood, sweetheart.”
“I reject it,” Violet declares.
I grin. “You can try, but it’ll catch you eventually.”
She makes a face like adulthood is the villain in a horror movie, then returns to her sketch. A flicker of movement draws my eye—the graphite lines forming the three of us on this porch, sunlight caught in Ava’s hair, my hand reaching to tuck it back.
My throat gets tight.
The clinic reopened last week.
New siding. Reinforced roof. Fresh insulation. A generator built to survive every tantrum the mountain can pitch. Supplies stocked for six months at a time. A small plaque near the door:In gratitude to the community that heals each other.
They know. They don’t talk about it.
Donations that big don’t come from lottery tickets. Tom gave me a look yesterday—the kind that sayswe see you, notwe’re watching you. Ellie hugged me so hard she cracked my back.
But no one asked for proof. No one asked for headlines. Silver Ridge has its secrets, but they aren’t born of shame—they’re born of loyalty.
“You’re thinking too loud again,” Ava murmurs, nudging my knee with hers.
I blink. “Am I?”
“You get that face,” Violet says without looking up. “The ‘oh no, feelings’ one.”
I scowl. “I do not have afeelingsface.”
Ava snorts into her mug. They are conspiring against me, but I like it.
“Do we have to go down to the station today?” Ava asks. “Or was yesterday enough community interaction for the week?”
Yesterday: Potluck. Pie auction. Tom’s wife trying to adopt me as her fourth son. Ellie shoving muffins into my pockets “for energy” even though I’d already eaten three. The entire town pretending not to watch me like I might disappear if they blinked too long.
“They mean well,” Ava says.
“I know,” I reply. “Still… a lot.”
She leans into my shoulder. “You’ll get used to being loved.”
I go still for a second.
Loved.
I’ve done a lot of things in my life—solved problems that looked impossible, built empires out of code and caffeine, carved a world out of ambition and grief. But that word is new to my vocabulary again. Not the ghost-memory of it, not the past tense—present.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks softly.
I’m thinking about how I died out there in that avalanche. How this life is what crawled out of the snow instead. How for the first time, that feels like a blessing instead of a punishment.
Instead I say, “The sensors need a second test run.”
