“Hikers sign in before heading into the backcountry,” I said. “Name. Route. Expected return. Helps search and rescue if someone doesn’t come back.”
Her steps slowed slightly. “Does that happen a lot?”
“Often enough.”
The path switchbacked sharply near the top, and when we crested the ridge, Emory stopped short. “Oh, wow.”
The overlook opened up in front of us—a wooden platform fixed into the rock, a railing running along the edge. Beyond it, the valley fell away in layers of green and gold, ridges fading into one another until Iron Peak rose in the distance, its summit still capped with snow.
A small ranger shed stood nearby, weathered but solid. The logbook sat mounted to a post beside it.
“This is incredible,” she murmured, moving toward the railing. “I get why people come here.”
I followed, standing close enough to catch her scent on the breeze—clean, faintly floral, and unmistakably her. “Some of them don’t leave,” I said.
She turned. “What do you mean?”
I nodded toward the logbook. “Check the names.”
She crossed to it and flipped through the pages. I’d watched dozens of people do the same thing over the years. The moment always landed the same way—confusion first, then the slow realization.
Her fingers paused over a page where several names were circled in red. “They… didn’t come back?”
“Not all of them,” I said. “Search and rescue does what they can. But the mountains don’t care how prepared you are. Weather shifts fast. One wrong call, one slip, and that’s it.”
She traced one of the circled names slowly. “That’s awful.”
“It’s reality,” I replied. “You respect this place, or it reminds you why you should’ve.”
She was quiet for a moment, absorbing that. Then she looked at me.
“Is that why you live here?” she asked. “Because it’s dangerous?”
The question caught me off guard. There was no judgment in her tone. No pity. Just curiosity. Genuine interest.
“I live here because it’s quiet,” I said. “And because people leave me alone.”
A small smile touched her mouth. “Except for me.”
“Except for you.”
Something in my chest tightened when she smiled back. Softer this time, thoughtful.
We moved to one of the benches near the edge and sat down, shoulders close but not quite touching. The sun had climbedhigher, warming the air, and she tilted her face into it with a quiet sigh. I watched the light play over her features—the curve of her cheek, the way her hair caught gold in the brightness.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“Depends.”
“Why law school?”
She stared out across the valley. “My dad’s a lawyer. Corporate work. My mom wanted me to be a teacher like her.” She exhaled slowly. “I spent most of my life trying to be what one of them wanted.”
“And now?”
“Law school was my decision. Not corporate law. I want to do public interest work. Help people who don’t have a voice.” She laughed softly. “My parents keep asking when I’ll get a real job.”
“Sounds real to me.”
