Chapter Four
Ava
By the time the next morning rolls around, I’ve talked myself into pretending the avalanche never happened.
It’s a flimsy lie.
My alarm goes off at six, vibrating angrily across the nightstand.
I smack at it until the buzzing stops, then lie there for a few seconds, staring at the hairline crack in my ceiling.
Images from last night drift up like snow shaken loose from a tree branch: whiteout, buried shape, the dead weight of a stranger over my shoulder, a pair of storm-blue eyes glaring at me in the clinic like being alive was a personal insult.
You should’ve left me.
I push the memory away and drag myself out of bed. No time to sit around replaying conversations with a man who clearly wants nothing from the world except for it to stop trying.
Violet’s door is cracked open. She’s a lump under the blankets, headphones on, hair spilled across the pillow in a dark, tangled wave. I tap on the frame lightly.
“Vi. Time to wake up.”
She groans into the pillow. “Five more minutes.”
“Five more minutes turns into you skipping breakfast and me lecturing you about blood sugar,” I remind her. “Up. Now, please.”
“Bossy,” she mutters, but she kicks the covers back.
While she shuffles to the bathroom, I start coffee and pull the glucose meter and her logbook from the counter drawer. The kitchen is still dim, winter light barely pressing against the frosted window. The heater rumbles in the vents, doing its tired best.
Violet pads in wearing fuzzy socks and a sweatshirt that says SCIENCE > SLEEP. She flops into a chair and holds out her hand without being asked.
“Prick me, O Mighty One.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” I say, loading the lancet.
She winces when the needle hits, then watches the meter count down.
119
I exhale. “That’s good. How’re you feeling?”
“Hungry,” she says. “And mildly offended you didn’t bring home donuts after saving a life.”
I snort. “I did not have the emotional capacity to face the bakery case at midnight, thanks. Toast and eggs?”
“Sold.”
As I move around the kitchen—bread into the toaster, eggs into the pan, coffee into my bloodstream—she watches me with that quiet, thoughtful gaze she gets when she’s thinking too much.
“Was it bad last night?” she asks finally. “The call?”
“It was… intense,” I admit. “Avalanche ridge. Someone was walking too close to the edge right before it hit.”
Her eyes widen. “Were they…?”
“Alive,” I say quickly. “Barely. But yes.”
“What happened to them?”
I think of him in the clinic bed, jaw clenched, hands fisted in the blanket, dark eyes full of a grief so dense it felt like its own weather system.
I didn’t want to be rescued. You should’ve left me.
“They’re fine,” I say aloud, sliding her plate across the table. “Or they will be, if they listen to medical advice and don’t do anything else monumentally stupid.”
Violet relaxes a fraction. “Good.”
Violet relaxes a little, tension leaving her shoulders. She digs into her breakfast like nothing in the world could ruin her morning.
If only. I turn to refill my coffee—and my phone buzzes.
Silver Ridge Community Clinic.
My stomach drops.
I shoot Violet a smile. “Eat your eggs. I’m checking something quick.”
She gives me a thumbs-up, mouth full.
I tap the notification.
Subject: Winter Roof Damage & Program Status
Dear Ms. Dawson, As you know, the recent storm caused significant roof damage to the clinic. Our insurance provider has denied additional coverage for repairs beyond the initial assessment.
Due to budget constraints, we anticipate temporary suspension of several outreach and chronic-care programs beginning next month, including subsidized endocrinology services and diabetes support.
We recognize the impact—
I stop. I go back. Read it again. And again. But the words don’t change.
subsidized endocrinology services diabetes support
My throat closes.
That’s her. Her meds. Her specialist. Her entire safety net.
My hands shake. I set the phone down carefully, like it might explode if handled wrong.
“Mom?”
I look up—too fast.
Violet stands halfway between the table and the door, backpack dangling from one hand. She wasn’t supposed to see my face. But she did.
“You’re doing the face,” she says.
“What face?”
“The I’m-trying-not-to-panic one.”
I attempt to smile. It feels brittle. She walks toward me, silently, eyes darting between me and the phone.
“Is it about me?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
I shouldn’t tell her. I should protect her. But I can’t lie to her.
“Yes,” I say softly. “It’s… the clinic.”
Her chin trembles. “What about it?”
“The roof damage was worse than they thought. Some programs might be paused for a while.”
“Which ones?”
I swallow. The truth tastes like gravel.
“The diabetes support program.”
Her breath stutters. “But… I still need—Mom, I can’t—”
“I know.” I pull her into my arms before the fear can swallow her whole. “I know, sweetheart. And listen to me very carefully.”
She looks up at me through frightened lashes.
“You are not going without what you need,” I say firmly. “Not once. Not ever. I don’t care if I have to pick up triple shifts or sell both kidneys—I will get your insulin and your patches and your appointments. I promise you.”
She lets out a shaky, wet laugh. “You can’t sell both kidneys.”
“Then I’ll sell one of yours.”
“Mom.”
I brush her hair back, kissing her forehead. “We will figure it out. Even if it means driving down the mountain all winter. Even if it’s awful.”
She wipes her eyes with her sleeve. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I echo, tightening my arms around her. “I’ve got you.”
She holds me back, squeezing hard, until her tremble fades. When she pulls away, she breathes out like she’s trying to stay brave for the both of us.
“You’re sure?” she asks again. “About… everything?”
“I’m your mom,” I say. “Being sure is literally my job description.”
She shoulders her backpack, grabs her bottle, and heads to the door.
She hesitates there—looking at me like she’s memorizing my face—then heads out to the waiting bus.
The door clicks shut behind her.
The quiet that follows feels heavier than the storm I fought last night.
I stare at the clinic email again, the letters smearing together as my eyes sting.
Later. I’ll deal with it later. After groceries. After coffee. After pretending, for one more hour, that the world isn’t shifting beneath our feet.
I grab my keys.
If I’m going to panic, I can at least do it while buying practical things—like off-brand cereal and the cheap coffee that tastes like regret.
***
The grocery store is busier today, everyone stocking up in case the roads close again. Carts rattle over wet tile. Boots squeak. Kids fuss. Someone laughs too loudly near the deli.
I move on autopilot—milk, bread, eggs, cheap coffee, vegetables that are more aspirational than realistic. I’m standing in front of the freezer section debating between store-brand frozen peas and the slightly more expensive mixed vegetables when I feel it.
That prickling awareness. Like the air changed.
I glance down the aisle.
He’s there.
The man from the snow. From the clinic bed. Avalanche Guy, my brain supplies helpfully.
He’s in a dark jacket, hood down, damp hair pushed back hastily like he didn’t bother to look in a mirror. His hands are bare, fingers still reddened and rough from frostbite and rewarming. He’s studying a shelf of canned soup like it personally offended him.
My heart does a stupid little stutter.
I consider turning around. Walking away. Pretending I didn’t see him.
But then I remember the chart from last night—Taylor, Jax printed neatly at the top. Age, emergency contact blank. No local address on file, just the ski lodge listed as his employer.
Jax. Of course the brooding avalanche walker is named Jax.
He reaches for a heavy bag of rock salt with those raw hands, and my professional instincts slam harder than my common sense.
“You shouldn’t be lifting that,” I say before my brain can stop my mouth.
He stiffens, hand closing around the bag. His gaze cuts to me, sharp and guarded.
For a second, I see recognition flicker there. Then it hardens into something cooler.
“You again,” he says.
“You’re welcome,” I reply.
His jaw tightens.
I step closer, nodding at his hands. “You need to keep those warm. You were borderline frostbite yesterday. Carrying twenty pounds of ice melt with bare fingers is not recommended follow-up care.”
“I’ll live,” he says flatly.
“Not if you keep treating your body like it’s disposable.”
“It is.”
The words are so blunt my breath stalls.
I bite back a dozen things I want to say—about Violet, about the clinic email, about how fragile life actually is when a single canceled program can put it at risk. Instead, I fold my arms and look him dead in the eye.
“Regardless of your philosophical stance on existence,” I say, “frostbite is still a bad idea. Wear gloves. Keep moving. Watch for numbness and color changes. If your fingertips turn white or gray, you come back to the clinic.”
His expression flickers, annoyance battling with something like reluctant attention. “You always lecture strangers in grocery stores?”
“Only the ones I’ve recently dragged out of an avalanche,” I say. “And technically you’re not a stranger. I’ve seen your chart.”
His eyes sharpen. “You read my chart.”
“I was your EMT,” I remind him. “Looking at your chart is literally my job.”
“What else did you ‘see’?” His tone has an edge now, wary and defensive.
“Jax Taylor. Age thirty-nine. No meds. No allergies. Terrible judgment.”
One corner of his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to react. “You got all that from one form?”
“And the fact that you were ‘walking’ alone near the ridge in a whiteout,” I say. “Which, by the way, is not a hobby you should keep.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“You also didn’t ask to stop breathing, but we’re all making compromises.”
His gaze locks on mine, stormy and intense. For a brief, disorienting moment, the noise of the store fades. It’s just his eyes and my pounding pulse and the awful, intimate knowledge that this man genuinely doesn’t care if he makes it to tomorrow.
“You should mind your own business,” he says quietly.
“You were my business when you called in almost dead.”
“I didn’t call.”
“Someone did. You still ended up in my ambulance.”
He exhales, slow and sharp, as if I’m physically tiring him out. “Next time, don’t bother.”
The casual way he says it knocks something loose in me.
“Do you have any idea how many people I’ve watched die because help couldn’t get there in time?
” My voice comes out low, shaking with more feeling than I mean to show.
“How many parents, kids, hikers, drivers? How many times I’ve had to walk into a room and say, ‘I’m sorry, we did everything we could’? ”
His expression goes still.
“If you want to flirt with oblivion,” I say, “do it somewhere that doesn’t put a target on the back of every person who tries to save you.”
The words hang there between us, hot and brittle. Regret flashes across his face so fast I almost miss it. His fingers flex on the bag of salt.
“I didn’t ask you to come,” he says again, but softer this time. Less knife, more bruise.
“I know,” I whisper. “That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t do it again.”
Silence. A heartbeat. Another.
I realize my hands are shaking.
“Forget it,” I mutter, turning my cart away before he can see more than I want him to. “Have fun freezing your fingers off, Jax Taylor.”
“I’m not—” he starts, then stops.
I don’t look back. If I do, I might soften. I might ask why he talks like death is an old friend. I might care more than is safe for either of us.
And right now, I can’t afford to care about another broken thing.
I have a daughter, a failing clinic, and a mountain winter to survive.
Avalanche men with death wishes are not on the list. Not even the ones with eyes like a storm that almost took him.