EIGHTEEN
WES
Snow screamed past my ears.
Cold air knifed down my throat, my eyes watered, and the sled beneath me rattled like it had a death wish. The ground fell away faster than my brain could catch up, the hill dropping out from under the runners in a long, slick rush that felt like falling and flying at the same time.
A shout scraped out of my chest, sharp and ripped bare. Half furious, half something a lot closer to exhilarated.
Clara had shoved me.
No warning. No countdown. Just that wicked little glint in her eyes, her mittened hands braced, and a hard push that sent me and the sled tipping over the edge before I could finish telling her what a bad idea this was.
The first second was nothing but panic.
Too fast. Too much. Snow a blur, the slope tilting wrong, my stomach lurching in my ribs. My brain went straight to the worst-case scenario, the way it did now without asking permission.
If I wiped out, if the sled slipped from under me, if my leg caught wrong, if I twisted?—
The prosthetic thudded against the packed snow through the thin plastic, every vibration a reminder of what could go sideways. My hands clenched around the rope until my knuckles ached. My shoulders locked. Every muscle in my torso braced like I was waiting for impact.
The hill didn’t care. It kept on dropping.
My body remembered anyway.
My weight shifted with the sled. My core tightened and leaned into the curve as the ground dipped. Snow sprayed at the sides in a cold arc when I hit a little rut, the runners bumping and skittering for half a heartbeat before finding their track again.
The leg held.
The strap bit into my residual limb, solid and familiar. My balance wobbled, but it didn’t go out. The hill under me was steep enough to feel, but not steep enough to kill me. Wind tore at my eyes. My chest burned. The world narrowed to the hiss of snow, the pull of gravity, the drag of the rope in my fists.
Something in my ribs loosened.
A laugh punched out of me, raw and startled, like my body had gone ahead and decided before my brain.
The sound shocked me more than the ride.
I couldn’t remember the last time anything had just ... yanked a laugh out of me. No warning. No effort. Just that hot, wild sting of adrenaline hitting joy and sparking to life.
The sled hit the flat at the bottom with a jolt, skidding sideways as it lost momentum. Snow sprayed up over my boots and onto my jeans, freezing through the denim. The runners scraped and shuddered and then finally gave up, the whole thing jerking to a crooked stop in a shallow drift.
Silence rushed in, huge and bright, broken only by my own breathing.
My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to get free. The cold bit at my cheeks, my ears, even my teeth. My ass felt like I had just ridden over twenty land mines. The hand I’d wrapped around the rope was numb and burning at the same time.
I sat there anyway.
Alive. Upright. In one piece.
My mind did a quick inventory, automatic and practiced.
Leg? Still attached. No extra pull, no sharp twist, no screaming protest from the stump. Just the usual deep ache where bone met socket and the faint ghost buzz of a calf that wasn’t there.
Back? Fine.
Head? Clear, aside from the left-behind echo of the shout that had ripped out of me.
I had not eaten shit on the way down the hill. I had not face-planted. I had not toppled sideways into some humiliating tangle of limbs and carbon fiber and sled.