Page 42 of Seeds of Christmas
“Well,” she says, and I can hear the slight tremor in her voice that means she’s nervous but trying not to show it. “Here we are.”
“Here we are.”
Neither of us moves.
Through the windshield, I can see the cabin’s front porch—small, practical, the kind of porch that says “wipe your feet” not “sit and have lemonade.” There’s a neat stack of firewood under a blue tarp, and beyond that, nothing but wilderness stretching out like the entire world forgot we existed.
The mountains rise up in the distance, massive and white and completely indifferent to human concerns.
Limited cell service.
No family texts asking if I’m sure I’m okay.
No expectations beyond “collect data” and “don’t die.”
Just work and silence and Rhiannon Pierce, who in the past two days has turned out to be way more complicated than I expected. More interesting. More real.
“Okay,” Rhi says, putting the truck in park and killing the engine. “Let’s get unloaded before it gets dark. We’ve got maybe two hours of good light left.”
“Right to business.”
“One of us has to be.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means we gotta get to work.”
“Of course, Captain No Fun.” I salute.
She gives me a look that suggests she’s reconsidering the whole trip quarters thing, then climbs out of the truck.
I follow, and immediately sink ankle-deep into snow.
“Oh, this is going to be fun,” I mutter, trudging toward the back of the truck.
The air is sharp and clean—the kind of cold that hurts your lungs in a weirdly good way. Everything smells like pine and wood smoke and winter. The kind of winter people write poems about, not the gross slushy kind we get on campus.
I pop open the truck bed and start hauling out equipment cases.
Rhi’s already got her first load—a duffel bag and two equipment cases.
“You need help with that?” I call.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re carrying like forty pounds?—”
“I said I’m fine.”
Right. Independent.
I reach into the front seat first to grab my phone and backpack.
That’s when it hits me.
A snowball. Right between the shoulder blades.
I freeze, snow sliding down the back of my neck.
