Fuck.
I move to the window and peer out into the darkness. The storm has intensified, snow coming down in sheets, but I can just make out movement near the side of the cabin. Something’s wrong with the generator shed. I watch for another moment and see the shed door has blown open, banging violently in the wind. If it keeps up, the hinges will tear off completely, and then snow will bury the generator. Without that, we’ll lose power and access to water from the pump, and we’d be in serious trouble. I need to secure it. Now.
I grab my heavy coat, boots, and gloves as quietly as I can. Sloane’s still passed out on the couch, exhausted from our day. Part of me wants to wake her, let her know where I’m going, but she needs the rest. I’ll be quick. Five minutes, tops. Secure the door, check the generator, and get back inside. I slip out into the storm and immediately get hit with the full force of it. The wind is brutal, cutting through my coat like it’s nothing. Snow stings my face, limiting visibility to maybe ten feet. But I’m trained for this. I’ve worked in worse conditions.
I make my way around to the generator shed, fighting against the wind with each step. The door is hanging by one hinge, banging against the frame with each gust. Inside, I can see the generator is still running, but snow is already starting to accumulate on the floor. I grab the door, fighting to hold it against the wind, and examine the damage. The top hinge has completely torn away from the frame. The bottom one is barely hanging on. This will take more than five minutes. I look back at the cabin, warm light glowing from the windows, andthink about Sloane sleeping peacefully inside. Then I look at the generator. No choice. I get to work.
The wind is relentless, fighting me for every screw I try to tighten, every adjustment I try to make. My fingers are going numb despite the gloves. My face is completely numb. But I keep working. I manage to jury-rig the hinge with some wire and a spare piece of metal from my truck. It’s not pretty, but it’ll hold. I secure the door as best I can, making sure it’s latched properly this time. Then I check the generator, clear the snow that’s accumulated, and make sure it’s still running strong. I check the fuel level and everything looks good. I’m about to head back when I notice something else, a tree branch, massive and heavy, has fallen against the propane tank. It’s not leaking, but if that branch shifts in the wind, it could rupture the connection.
Fuck.
Could this night get any worse? I can’t leave it. If the propane goes, we’re done. I grab the branch and start dragging it away from the tank, my muscles straining against the weight and the wind. Snow is coming down so hard I can barely see the cabin anymore. My entire body screams at me to get inside, get warm, but I keep working. Finally, finally, I clear the branch and secure the propane connection. I take one last look around, making sure everything is secure, and then start making my way back to the cabin. The wind has picked up even more, if that’s possible. I’m trudging through snow that’s now mid-thigh deep in places. Each step is a battle.
But all I can think about is getting back to Sloane. Making sure she’s okay. Making sure she’s warm. Making sure she knows I didn’t just abandon her. By the time I get the door open and stumble inside, I’m covered head to toe in snow and ice. My fingers won’t bend. My face is completely numb. I can’t feel my toes. But the cabin is warm. The lights are still on. The generator held. I manage to get my boots off with shaking hands, then mycoat. I’m standing there in the entryway, dripping melted snow onto the floor, when I hear a sound from the couch.
“Jax?” Sloane’s sitting up, rubbing her eyes, looking confused and sleepy and so fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you,” I manage through chattering teeth.
She takes one look at me and shoots to her feet. “Oh my god, what happened? Where were you?”
“Generator shed. Door came loose. Had to fix it.” My words are clipped, my jaw so tight from the cold I can barely speak.
“You went out in that?” She gestures to the window where the storm is still raging. “By yourself?”
“Had to. Otherwise, we’d lose power.”
“Jax, you’re frozen.” She’s in front of me now, her hands hovering like she wants to touch but isn’t sure where. “Come on. We need to get you warm.”
“I’m fine. Just cold.”
“You’re not fine. You’re hypothermic.” Her voice has an edge of panic. “Come on. Now.” She takes my arm and leads me toward the bathroom. My body is starting to shake violently now, the adrenaline wearing off, and the cold setting in. “We need to get these wet clothes off,” she says, already pulling at my shirt. “Can you do it, or do you need help?”
“I can do it,” I say, but my hands won’t cooperate.
“Jax.” Her voice is firm now. “Let me help.”
So, I do. I let her strip off my wet thermal, my undershirt, my jeans. Let her wrap me in towels and guide me into the shower, turning the water on lukewarm, not hot, which could cause more damage. It’s good to know she knows some survival skills.
“Get in,” she orders. “I’m going to make you something hot to drink.”
I want to argue, want to tell her I’m fine, but I’m shaking too hard to speak. So, I step into the shower and let the lukewarmwater start to thaw me out. Through the bathroom door, I can hear her moving around the cabin. The sound of the kettle. Cabinets opening and closing. And underlying it all, I can hear her voice, soft and worried. She’s worried about me. When’s the last time someone worried about me? My family, sure, but they’re used to me handling things. Used to me being the strong one, the reliable one, the one who doesn’t need help. But Sloane is worried. And somehow, that means everything.
The water gradually gets warmer as my body adjusts. The violent shaking subsides to occasional tremors. Feeling starts to return to my fingers and toes, a painful, prickling feeling that makes me wince. But I’m okay. I’m going to be okay.
There’s a knock on the door. “Jax? Can I come in?”
“Yes.”
The door opens and Sloane slips inside, she’s holding a mug of something steaming. “I made you tea,” she says. “With lots of honey. And I laid out dry clothes on the bed.”
“Thank you.”
She finally looks at me, and there’s something fierce in her expression. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“Do what?”
“Go out in a storm like that without telling me. Without waking me up. I could have helped.”
