Page 59 of Seeds of Christmas
“Holy shit,” I say.
“Yeah.” Carter’s already pulling out his camera. “This is incredible.”
I move forward, carefully navigating the snowy slope. There’s a trail marker ahead—orange paint on a tree—and beyond it, warning signs posted on a wooden stake.
Caution: Unstable Ground
Thermal Features - Stay On Marked Trail
“Looks like we need to be careful,” I say, pointing at the signs.
“Always.” Carter’s setting up our equipment, already focused on the work. “The spring should be about a quarter mile down this trail. We’ll need to—Rhi, are you listening?”
But I’m not.
Because I’ve just spotted something moving in my peripheral vision.
A pika.
It’s tiny—maybe the size of my fist—with round ears and gray-brown fur. It’s perched on a rock about twenty feet off the trail, and it lets out this high-pitched squeak that’s somehow both adorable and ridiculous.
“Oh my god,” I whisper. “Carter, look.”
He follows my gaze. “Is that a pika?”
“Yes! I’ve never seen one in person!” I’m already moving toward it, my boots crunching in the snow. “They’re so rare to spot?—”
“Rhi, the sign said to stay on the trail?—”
“I’m just going to get a little closer.” I pull out my phone. “Just for a second.”
The pika squeaks again and hops further away, toward a cluster of interesting rock formations. The ground looks stable—just snow over solid rock.
“Rhi—”
“I’ll be right back!”
I step off the trail.
For the first time in my life, I’m not following the rules. I’m not being careful, not being the good girl who does exactly what she’s told. I’m just being spontaneous, chasing something that makes me happy.
I feel reckless.
I feel free.
The pika disappears behind a boulder, and I follow, laughing at my own silliness. The snow is deeper here, coming up almost to my knees, but the rock formations are incredible. Steam rises from somewhere nearby—we must be close to the thermal features.
“Rhi, seriously, come back!”
“Just one more second!”
I take another step forward, my phone raised to capture the spot where the pika vanished.
And then the world drops out from under me.
It happens so fast, I don’t even have time to scream.
The snow gives way. Not gradually, not with warning, just gone. My foot finds nothing but air, and then I’m falling, my arms windmilling uselessly, my phone flying from my hand.
