Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 48039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
“Hear that?” Axel says, breath a little sharper.
I freeze. For a second there’s only wind and a raven’s rough complaint. Then—faint. A thin, ugly sound that doesn’t belong to the mountain.
“Help!”
We move as one.
The scramble is crusted snow over rock, slick enough to make my stomach drop. Axel tests each hold like he’s negotiating with the mountain. I follow. I taste metal in the back of my throat; adrenaline does that sometimes. The cry comes again, closer now, frayed—the sound of a body that’s deciding it’s tired of trying.
We round a jut of granite and find him.
He’s curled on a shelf the size of a kitchen table, one foot jammed under a rock, jacket too thin, hat gone. His cheeks are mottled in that hypothermia-purple I hate. His eyes go wide when he sees us, then wet in a way that feels like a punch.
“Hey,” I say, dropping to my knees before the word is even out. “I’m Savannah. This is Axel. You’re okay. You did the right thing yelling.”
Axel anchors the line to a stubby pine and clips in, body between our patient and the void without thinking. He always knows where gravity wants to take you and sticks himself in the way.
“Name?” I ask, hands already moving: gloves off, skin contact to his neck, counting his pulse, checking breathing, scanning for bleeds.
“Evan,” he says, teeth chattering so hard the word comes in pieces.
“Evan, hi. How long have you been here?”
“D-don’t know. P-phone died.”
“Okay.” I peel back his jacket, hate what I see—sweat damp where his layers failed him, skin cold and clammy. I strip my own outer gloves and slide warm packs into his armpits, his groin, the places you buy core heat with minutes if you’re lucky. “Ax, his foot.”
Axel crouches, big hands careful, voice even. “Gonna touch your boot, Evan. Give me a yes.”
“Y-yes.”
Axel palpates the ankle with surgeon patience. “Feels trapped, not broken. You’re going to insult me with how strong you are when you stand.”
A ghost of a laugh rips out of Evan and dies quick. His eyes skitter to the drop. He swallows. I lean in, blocking his view with my shoulder.
“Look at me,” I say, steady. “What’s your favorite breakfast?”
He blinks. “Wh-what?”
“Favorite breakfast, Evan. Go.”
“Pan—pancakes.”
“Good man.” I slide a foil blanket behind his back, my body heat bleeding into him through the thin barrier. “Axel makes excellent pancakes. It’s disgusting.”
Axel’s mouth curves without leaving his focus. “I do. Wild blueberry and cinnamon. You’ll hate how much you love them.”
Evan breathes, a ragged inhale, a better exhale. His hands stop clawing the snow. The tremors still shake him, but now they have rhythm. Panic surrenders to the simple animal job of staying warm.
“Foot’s free,” Axel says, quiet triumph buried under calm. “Circulation’s slow but present. We’re going to stand on three, yeah?”
Evan nods, eyes on mine now like they’re ropes too.
I brace his shoulders. Axel takes his weight. “One. Two. Three.”
Evan screams once, voice shredding as his trapped foot wakes. He wobbles hard; Axel takes all of it, that impossible steadiness he carries around like extra bones locking in.
“I’ve got you,” Axel says, low and certain. “You’re not going anywhere but up.”
We clip Evan to the line and begin the crawl back, inches, then feet, then the blessed flat of the path. Captain appears like a pissed-off mountain goat then, half his beard covered with ice, eyes soft even as his mouth says something gruff about fools and maps.
We burrito Evan in blankets, hat, extra jacket, an indignity of kindness that makes him sob again. I check vitals, watch the numbers climb a hair, then another hair. The margin is thin. The margin is everything.
“We sled him,” Axel says. “You monitor, I pull.”
I know better than to argue. He’s built for the pull; I’m built to fight a body back into itself. We settle Evan in the rescue sled, strap him like a gift we’re not losing, and start the descent.
The wind wakes up for real. Snow needles my face. Trees lean into it, shoulder to shoulder, the whole ridge exhaling a warning.
Axel takes the front rope; Cole and I guide the back. Every step is a decision. The sled wants to run; the slope wants to teach us about physics the hard way. Evan moans once, a sound that threads under my skin. I talk without stopping, useless things on purpose—how Phantom River got its name, the best pie in town, the way sunlight looks through ice on the eaves if you catch it at seven a.m.
Halfway down, the gust we were promised arrives. It shoves hard. The sled jerks sideways, hits a hummock, and skates. Cole swears. I dig my boots in and feel the rope saw my gloves. Axel plants his entire weight and becomes an anchor.
We stop.
I taste adrenaline like pennies and hate how good it tastes.