Page 192 of The Heart of Winter

Then we sat down.

I was the first to speak. "How the hell did you end up finding us?"

The airline official explained that the rescue effort had been restarted at the request of the Lowen family. They’d contacted Japanese authorities and offered to fund another drone search.

They chose to focus first on the island where the volcano had erupted. Satellite imagery had picked it up, and they didn’t want to risk us getting killed by the eruption or anything that came after it, in case we were on that particular island.

I just sat there, kind of stunned. In a weird way… the volcano had saved us for the second time.

It had kept us alive, first by giving us a warm cave and water, then by keeping the wetlands alive and thriving, and finally, by making enough noise to draw the rescuers in.

So maybe… it wasn’t the worst thing after all.

But hearing it all left me puzzled. There was something off about it. Why would they restart the rescue operation after three weeks? I tried to dig deeper, but the official told me he had no additional information.

And then… the questioning began.

First, they asked about what happened on the plane, every detail I could recall, then about what transpired after the explosion.

I told them I blacked out and woke up on the island with a sprained ankle.

It was obvious they were doubtful about it, their eyes full of suspicion, their eyebrows raised.

Then, the psychologist asked if I was still in pain because of the foot injury. A little startled, I told him, that it hadn’t been that serious, hoping he wouldn’t dig into it any deeper. He tried, but I downplayed it, saying it was probably just a strained tendon, not a torn one.

Then the airline official jumped in with a flood of questions.

How did we survive on the island? Did someone bring us food, or did we find it ourselves? How? Where did we live? Had we explored the whole island? Had we seen any other drones, helicopters, or ships?

He had a long list, occasionally glancing down at a tablet as he ticked them off one by one.

Then the psychologist jumped back in.

He asked how I was feeling. And in a moment of thoughtless honesty, I admitted that while I was glad to be going home, part of me was also nervous, wondering what, exactly, would be waiting for me there. After all, I’d been gone for three weeks.

He nodded, feigning understanding. Then came a whole string of new questions, but this time about Winter.

How had Winter helped me survive? How had I helped him?

I answered truthfully, but carefully avoided anything about the physical side of our relationship. I explained how, because of my ankle, at first, Winter had been the one gathering food. But later, when he grew too weak, I had to go out looking for him instead.

That’s when the psychologist switched gears.

He started talking about how extreme situations can create emotional dependency, how, in survival scenarios, people can develop unusually tight bonds, fueled by their reliance on each other.

He emphasized that I didn’t really know the ‘everyday’ Winter. That what I saw on the island was a version shaped by trauma and isolation—an extreme one.

I just sat there and listened as he went on and on, saying how intense gratitude could easily be mistaken for something deeper, that suffering could cloud your perception of what actually happened.

What was going on?

Then something dawned on me. When the drone had hovered above us, I’d kissed Winter.

Had my father seen that?

Had it scared him?

Blinking, I stared at the guy, trying to figure out what this was really about. It all sounded way too specific, like the psychologist was deliberately targeting the possibility that I’d developed feelings for Winter.

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