Gladys doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes scan my direction—sharp, perceptive, uncomfortably intelligent.
For one terrifying second, I swear she’s looking right at me.
Then she snorts. “Snowmelt,” she declares. “Trees shedding their winter weight.”
I let out a silent, delayed exhale.
Gladys turns to continue her inspection—and that’s when I see it. Dangling from the strap of her pack is a bright orange field tag. It’s not hers. Elias uses those. They’re always orange. I overheard him once say that he likes “high visibility.” Whatever that means. (It means he loses things constantly.)
My chest warms, annoyingly so. He must have checked in with her. Or left her a note. Or?—
I shake it off.
Focus.
Gladys and the junior rangers start walking again, heading toward the research station. She’s lecturing them about tide patterns in mountain snowmelt, which makes absolutely no sense but somehow sounds completely authoritative.
Once I’m sure they’re far enough down the trail, I drop silently from the cedar trunk to the ground. The faint scent of Elias lingers in the air like a memory I shouldn’t be inhaling this deeply. He’s back. Somewhere out here. Probably tripping over rocks with the confidence of a man who absolutelyshould notmultitask.
I rub a hand over my face. “For the love of mushrooms,” I mutter. And then I turn toward the research station trail. Just to check for storm damage. Just to ensure the fencing isn’t sagging. Just to… satisfy safety concerns.
That’s all. That’s absolutely all.
And if I’m walking a little faster than usual? Well. Spring makes everyone weird.
CHAPTER TWO
ELIAS
I wakeup to the sound of dripping. It’s not the cozy, relaxing kind you get off cabin roofs in movies. This is the relentless, arrhythmic plink of thawing snow hitting metal somewhere over my head, echoing down into the field station with all the charm of a leaky faucet.
For a moment, I’m disoriented—staring at the rough wooden beams overhead, at the faint strip of pale light seeping around the curtain. Then it hits me, all at once, like a rush of cold air straight to the lungs.
I’m back.
Not in a university office with buzzing fluorescent lights. Not in a noisy café trying to analyze data while someone plays acoustic covers in the corner. I’m back in Olympic.
The thought settles into my chest like relief finally finding somewhere to land.
I roll onto my side and immediately regret it when my spine pops like bubble wrap.
“Excellent,” I mutter into my pillow. “My body has unionized.”
The cot under me is about two inches too short and definitely older than I am, the mattress a thin layer between me and theplywood platform. I knew it would hurt. I remembered that. But apparently my back has forgotten how to be a good sport about it.
I push up to sit, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The early-spring chill has seeped in during the night, numbing my nose and fingertips. My breath fogs faintly in the dim air as I swing my legs over the side and plant my feet on the worn rug.
It’s quiet. Not the heavy, artificial quiet of insulated walls, though. This is layered quiet. Alive almost.
If I listen, I can hear it: the faint creak of trees shifting, the distant hush of water moving under sheets of ice, the first soft calls of waking birds. A jay complains somewhere outside. A squirrel skitters over the roof.
The skittering doesn’t stop. Instead, it relocates—from roof to porch railing with a soft scrabble of claws. When I glance toward the window, the squirrel is already there, pressed close to the glass like a tiny, judgmental landlord. He tilts his head, whiskers twitching, black eyes bright with interest rather than fear. He’s not frozen, nor does he dart away. Instead, I’m convinced the little critter is just watching me.
“Well,” I murmur, pushing myself upright, “good morning to you too.”
I slide the window open an inch, expecting him to bolt. He doesn’t. He hops closer instead, little paws gripping the railing as he leans in like he’s considering a conversation. The casual acceptance is oddly reassuring—this unspokenyou belong here enough for now.
After months in cities where even pigeons look annoyed by human existence, the uncomplicated curiosity feels like a small benediction. I snort softly and close the window again. “Sorry, buddy. No snacks yet. You’ll have to survive on my greeting.”