"Weather changed quicker than forecast up on the ridge." He consulted his clipboard. "Search teams are mobilizing now."
"The ridge," I repeated.
"Yes, ma'am. We're advising everyone to avoid the northern trailheads."
"Were they experienced? The couple?"
He looked up, something flickering in his eyes. Pity, maybe. "We're not sure yet. Could be lost, could be sheltering. But we’ll do our best to find them."
We'll do our best to find them.Professional optimism. Practiced reassurance.
I'd heard it before.
"Thank you for letting me know," I heard myself say.
"Of course. Have a good evening."
He walked back to his vehicle. I watched him go. The door was still open, cold air rushing past me into the cabin. I should close it. I should move.
I couldn't move.
"Your sister... there was an accident on the trail."
Different ranger. Different porch. Same words dressed in different clothes.
My knees buckled.
I hit the floor hard, my back slamming against the door, forcing it shut. The cold of the floorboards seeped through my jeans. My hands were shaking. When had they started shaking?
"Okay," I whispered to no one. "Okay. Breathe. Just breathe."
I tried. The air wouldn't come. My lungs had forgotten how to work.
I crawled my way back into my house. The spelling tests were scattered across the table above me. Tommy’s unique spelling, cheerful, and oblivious. The tea sat cooling. Normal things. Evidence of a normal evening in a normal life.
The wind screamed outside. It sounded like the mountain laughing.
My phone buzzed on the table. I reached up blindly, grabbing it.
Dad. The screen pulsed with his name.
I watched it ring. Once. Twice. Three times.
"Answer it," I told myself. "Just answer."
Four times. Five.
I couldn't.
It went to voicemail. A moment later, the notification appeared. I pressed play with numb fingers.
"Hey, sweetheart." His voice, warm and familiar, cracked something inside me. "Just checking in. Weather looks rough up your way. Call me when you can. Love you, Em."
Love you, Em.The same sign-off, every message, for the last year.
I should call him back. I should let him know I was safe. But his voice reminded me of hospital rooms and funeral homes and the slow erosion of a family. First, Mom. Then, Lily. Now just the two of us, orbiting each other at a careful distance.
If I let him get closer, I'd lose him too. That was the math. That was the price.
