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A dam had never driven so fast. He’d called to see if Claire heard anything before driving back to Wasilla from Anchorage, and she’d shared the entire story.

He barely registered the shape of the road, just the blur of trees and the thrum of the tires beneath him.

Claire’s words kept echoing: He escaped . Denali , again . They’re looking for him now .

Peter was out there. Cold. Alone. Possibly hunted.

He gripped the wheel tighter. “Hold on, Peter. I’m coming.”

Since Peter made it out, he would stay within the trees but follow the stream that paralleled the trail — like their father taught them. He was smart and still alive. But time was running out.

When he reached the junction, he slammed on the brakes, sliding into gravel.

Rusty, already waiting in his truck, stepped out with a pair of borrowed search-and-rescue dogs and two backpacks.

“Ready?” Rusty asked.

Adam nodded once. “Just need to grab his jacket… for the dogs.”

They hiked through the growing dusk, the dogs ranging ahead, noses twitching. Adam kept scanning the landscape. Peter was strong. Smart. But he’d been gone for days, and this part of Denali didn’t forgive mistakes.

At the edge of a ridge, one of the dogs barked sharply, tail stiff. Adam surged forward.

Below them, barely visible against the ice-laced brush, lay a crumpled figure.

“Peter!”

He bolted down the slope, feet skidding. He wasn’t moving.

But he was there.

He was alive — he had to be.

He reached his side and dropped to his knees. “Peter. Peter, it’s me.”

His lips were blue, face scratched, and he was barely breathing.

Adam pulled off his jacket, wrapped him tightly, and pressed his body against him. “I’ve got you, Peter.”

Rusty called for the med evac as Adam carried him toward the clearing.

“Don’t let go, brother,” he whispered. “We’re going home.”