The storm comes in fast.
It isn’t a surprise, that's how it works in the canyon. The cliffs funnel everything, wind, snow, cold and hail. You get maybe an hour's warning before the mountains decide to remind you who's in charge.
I've seen it before, growing up here, but I'd forgotten the scale of it. Twenty-one years of deserts, forward operating bases, and military housing with central heating will do that. I'm at the Summit House replacing a section of gutter that pulled away during last week's wind when the sky goes from gray to charcoal in twenty minutes.
Nora comes out on the porch, looks up, declares, “That’s a big one.”
She's not dramatic. Nora doesn't waste words any more than I do. So when she saysbig one,I'm already doing the math. The temperature drop and the wind speed mean that half the ridge is going to lose power. Iron Peak's electrical grid is held together with duct tape and stubbornness.
I finish the gutter and pack my tools. Then I help Nora bring in the furniture from the porch. I check that the Summit House generator is fueled and ready to rock. She's got no guests thisweek, but she'll open the doors if anyone needs a warm place. That's just how Iron Peak works. The town takes care of itself because nobody else is going to drive through a box canyon in a blizzard to do it.
By four o'clock, the snow is coming sideways. By five we’re nearing a whiteout.
I'm in my truck heading home. It’s a small cabin on the south ridge that I've been renting since I got back. It’s bare-bones and one bedroom. It’s the kind of place that looks like no one lives there, but I’m ready to get off the roads.
Buzz. Buzz.
It’s Jocelyn and I answer on the first ring.
“You okay? Got Mom squared away with the firewood last night.”
“Yeah, I saw that. Thanks. We’re all set. But the power’s out across the north ridge. Evelyn's cabin is up there. She doesn't have a generator, James.”
I stare at the white sheets covering the road. June must have told her. Or Jocelyn looked up the rental listing. Either way, she's right.
Then without another thought, I turn the truck around.
I don't even need to think about it. She's in a cabin on the north ridge with no heat and no generator. The temperature is going to drop below zero tonight. That's not a situation that requires deliberation. That's a situation that requires action… and firewood.
I stop at my place and load the truck bed with split logs, kindling, a camp lantern, and extra blankets. Then I throw in a thermos of coffee because apparently that's our thing now. I grab the tool bag out of habit and then I’m back on the road.
The canyon road is already bad. Snow piles up on the curves and visibility drops. My headlights cut through white static. The cliffs on either side are invisible. They’re walls of granite I knoware there because I grew up pressed against them. I take it slow. The truck knows this road the way my boots knew the trails on base. I lead with muscle memory and instinct.
I keep my mind calm and focused on the task at hand.
Evelyn is up there alone.
The thought isn't abstract. It's specific and sharp. It sits in my chest like a fist. She's alone in a cabin she's lived in for less than two weeks, in a town she chose because no one would find her here. The storm is swallowing everything outside her windows. She's probably sitting in the dark trying to breathe through whatever her brain is throwing at her. The thought makes my stomach clench and I pick up the pace.
I don't know what happened to Evelyn. But I know what it left behind. I'm not going to let that be the case for one minute longer than it takes me to get up this road.
Finally her cabin appears in my headlights. It’s small and pitch black with snow already piling on the porch rail. It’s completely still. There’s not even smoke coming from the chimney so I know the woodstove isn't going.
I park and cut the engine. Then I flash my headlights three times. If she’s looking, she’ll know it’s me. I grab an armload of split logs and kindling. Then I climb the porch steps. Snow lands in my collar and wind cuts through my jacket.
I knock and the door creaks open just a crack.
“It’s me.”
“I saw the headlights, but I thought it was too good to be true.” The relief in her voice is palpable.
She pulls the door open and she’s in an oversized sweater that hangs past her hands and slips off one shoulder. She’s wearing leggings with wool socks that pull up to her calves. Her hair is down and messy. It’s the first time I've seen her like this and it hits me somewhere primal. All those dark curls are looseand wild around her heart shaped face. Her glasses are fogged from her own breath in the cold air and she pushes them up.
“Come in. What in the world are you doing up here?”
"Your power's out."
"I… yes. I noticed." She wraps her arms around herself. Her breath is visible.
