Page 61 of Seeds of Christmas
“Carter!”
12
CARTER
My hands won’t stop shaking.
I’m crouched at the edge of the hole, staring down at the jagged opening where Rhi disappeared, and my entire body is vibrating with adrenaline and terror.
One second, she was there—laughing, chasing after that stupid rat thing, looking happier than I’ve ever seen her.
The next second, she was just gone.
The scream is still echoing in my ears.
Even covered in snow, cheeks raw from the cold, she’s still the most striking thing I’ve ever seen—and I swear I’d burn the whole forest down before letting anything happen to her.
“I’m right here!” I call down, forcing my voice to stay steady even though I feel like I’m going to throw up. “I’m just grabbing my phone. I need to call for help, but I’m not leaving. I’m ten feet away, and I’m talking to you the whole time. Okay?”
“Okay.” Her voice floats up, so small and broken it makes my chest ache. “Okay.”
I move fast, yanking my pack open with shaking fingers. Phone. Where the fuck is my phone?
Dominic would already have it out. Dominic would have been prepared.
No. Stop. Not helpful.
“Talk to me,” Rhi calls up, and there’s panic threading through every word. “Please, just keep talking.”
“I’m here.” I find my phone, pull it out. The screen is cracked—when did that happen?—but it lights up. “I’ve got my phone. Fuck, one bar?—”
One bar. That’s all I’ve got. One single bar of signal in this entire goddamn wilderness.
It might not be enough.
It has to be enough.
“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” I say, more to myself than to her. My thumb hovers over the screen. Who do I call? 911? They’ll dispatch from the nearest town, which is—what, an hour away? Two hours? And what do I even tell them? We’re somewhere in the mountains, I don’t have exact coordinates, Rhi’s hurt and trapped and?—
Dominic would know the protocol. Dominic volunteered as an EMT that summer. He’d know exactly what to do, exactly who to call, exactly how to?—
“I’m calling someone who can help,” I say, and my voice is steadier than I feel. “My dad. He’s going to tell me what to do.”
“Your dad?”
“He’s been a firefighter for thirty years. He’s finished so many rescue situations. He’ll know what to do.”
My finger is already moving, finding Dad’s contact. I haven’t called him in a while. We used to talk all the time.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely hold the phone. Dad answers on the second ring and the relief is so intense I almost start crying.
“Carter?”
“Dad. Dad, I need help.” My voice cracks.
I hear the immediate shift in his tone—from surprised to focused in half a second. No questions about Christmas, no hurt in his voice, just rock solid calm.
“Talk to me, son. What’s happening?”
