He looks at me, grins. “What? Do I have snotcicles?”
“Not yet,” I say. “Give it an hour.”
He shakes his head, then follows. We crunch up the slope, each footstep breaking the crust and sinking a couple inchesinto powder. I keep the pace slow, making sure he can keep up. The first part is easy—a straight shot along a packed trail.
He doesn’t talk much, but I feel the tension in him. Every few steps, he glances over his shoulder, then at the sky, then back at me. It’s not paranoia. Just awareness.
I stop at a bend in the trail, pull the backpack off, and dig out a folded map.
“First lesson,” I say, “always know where you are, and how to get back if shit goes sideways.”
He takes the map, studies it. “It’s all white. How do you even tell?”
“Landmarks,” I say. “Sun’s your main one, but you’ve got to keep track of elevation, wind, even the shape of the trees. Here—” I point to a notch in the range, then a small X someone (me, years ago) marked with a pen. “We’re here. If you lose the trail, angle toward the south face. That’s the quickest way back to the chalet.”
He nods, memorizing. I watch his fingers, the way he taps the edge of the map, the way his eyes narrow when he’s thinking. He’s built for this kind of learning—fast, intuitive, never wasting energy on things that don’t matter.
I watch him a second longer than necessary.
He glances up. “What?”
“Nothing.” I look away, then shoulder the pack and keep moving.
We climb the next stretch, the snow getting looser, the wind sharper. The world is quiet except for the rhythm of our steps and the occasional puff of breath.
After a while, Landon says, “So what’s the real lesson? This isn’t just a walk.”
I stop, turn, and face him. “You need to know how to get out. Always. Doesn’t matter how safe it feels.”
He holds my gaze, then nods. “That’s what you always do. You keep the exits in your head.”
“I have to.”
“Not here,” he says, and for a second he almost looks sorry for me. “It’s just us and the snow.”
I want to argue, but I can’t. He’s right. Out here, there’s nothing but cold, hunger, and the kind of silence that would kill softer men.
Pointing to a stand of pines, their branches heavy with snow, I motion with my hand. “We’ll do the next lesson there.”
He follows. When the trees close in, the wind dies, and the temperature drops. It’s so still I can hear his breath, the scrape of his boots, the way his gloves rub together as he flexes his hands.
I drop the pack, unzip the main pocket, and start pulling out the gear.
He leans over my shoulder, curious.
I hold up a folded mylar blanket, then a fire starter, then a knife with a composite handle. “Always pack for three days, minimum. Never know when you’ll need it.”
He grins, “You’re not wrong. I’ve never made it more than three days in my own apartment without a resupply.”
I hand him the knife. “You ever use one of these?”
He flips it, catches it by the blade, tests the edge with his thumb. “Sure, but mostly for opening Amazon boxes.”
I snort, take it back, and demonstrate: I strip a branch, then start carving a notch. He watches, eyes glued to my hands.
When the shelter starts to take shape—a basic lean-to against the trunk of a pine—he helps, holding branches, testing the strength. He’s surprisingly good at following directions, even when I toss them out with zero explanation.
After twenty minutes, we have a windbreak. I wrap the mylar blanket across the frame, then anchor it with snow. Landon surveys the work, then grins at me. “It’s almost like you don’t want me to freeze to death.”
