A series of unstable stones forms a makeshift crossing.
And by unstable, I mean some are half submerged while others visibly wobble beneath the pressure of the current.
“We cross here,” Cameron announces.
Or Connor.
At this point, I genuinely have no idea.
“Of course we do,” I mutter.
“If you fall in, the water’s about four degrees,” one of them adds conversationally. “But you’re a doctor, so I don’t need to explain hypothermia to you.”
How reassuring.
I deeply appreciate the educational sadism.
The twins leap across effortlessly, landing on stable stones with alarming precision like they spent their childhood dancing across freezing rivers.
Which they probably did.
I step forward, attempting to project confidence I absolutely do not feel.
The first stone shifts dangerously beneath my weight.
I flail my arms wildly to regain balance.
The second is slick with algae.
I nearly fall again.
Ragnar, meanwhile, trots across the stream without the slightest hesitation, his hooves finding secure footing with insulting ease.
A sheep crosses better than I do.
There’s something profoundly humiliating about that realization.
Halfway across, my foot slips again.
This time I don’t recover fast enough.
My arm plunges into the freezing water as I catch myself, and the cold literally steals the air from my lungs.
It feels like shoving my entire arm into a bucket of ice filled with razor blades.
I grit my teeth to stop myself from yelling, haul myself onto the next stone, and somehow finish crossing with my sleeve soaked to the elbow and my entire body shaking.
The twins don’t comment.
But I catch the looks they exchange.
They’re evaluating me.
Judging me.
“Keep moving,” one of them says. “You’ll warm up.”
After another hour of walking—duringwhich feeling slowly returns to my numb arm—we reach a vast stretch of empty moorland.
