Page 44 of Unexpected Pickle
I have no way to contact Hex, or the other chefs, or our instructor.
Shit.
Should I call 911? Is it 911 in Canada? I don’t know.
I pick up my phone. I still have one bar. It’s not a total horror movie scenario yet.
But it’s not enough to get data. Every Google query I try times out without giving me an answer.
God. What do I do? Will the power come back on?
The cabin temperature is dropping, particularly near the windows. I stand by the fire a moment, grateful for working gasand logs. Then I pull a blanket off the bed and wrap it around me to return to the window.
I spot a shadow against the snow. A sizable one, like a Yeti backed by trees.
It takes the short crosswalk and heads toward my cabin.
It’s Hex.
I throw open my door. “Hurry!”
He rushes forward and hurtles into the room. I slam the door behind him.
“Did you try calling the lobby?” I ask him.
“Yeah, did you?”
“I only got voicemail.” My voice has a tremor in it.
“Same. And the phone is useless for data.”
“Mine, too.”
He stomps his boots. “Should we try going to the lobby?”
“It looks dark in there.”
“We could get some information.”
“Yeah.”
He tightens his scarf around his neck. Only his face is visible. “I’ll go. Then I’ll come report back.”
Fear overtakes me in a cold rush. “No, I’ll go too.”
“It’s bitter out there.”
“I’m a little scared.”
His eyebrows draw together. “I won’t leave you alone.”
“Let me bundle up.”
I realize my heavy coat is still hanging in the kitchen. Damn it. That was a stupid mistake. I layer on a sweater, a hoodie, and my chef jacket. I guess it’s good I wear them loose.
“Take my gloves,” he says, tugging his off. “I guess you left yours in the kitchen.”
I nod, gratefully pulling them on. He has deep pockets, at least. I dig through my bag for the extra scarf I packed, the lighter, prettier one. It’s something, at least.
