Page 51 of Rise After Fall

Joanna, Scooter, and several of the other ski-school staff members hurry out to join him, and I watch as they joyously dance around in the falling snow.

“Zoey! Snow!” Joanna shouts.

There are few things that make ski bums happier than a slope covered in real snow.

“I see that. You guys don’t celebrate too long,” I call.

They continue to hoot and holler as I go back inside.

Fresh powder. Tomorrow is gonna be fun.

Morris

“Thank Morris for all his help.”

The three little girls I’ve spent the last two hours with look up at me.

“Thank you,” they say in unison.

I bend to kneel. “You’re very welcome. You girls did so well. I can’t wait to see you again for your next lesson.”

I walk back to equipment rental with them and their mother. Then, I head outside to marvel at the line to the chairlifts.

The ski area has had a steady flow of skiers and snowboarders since the grand opening, but today has to be a record. In no small part due to the six inches of snow—a winter storm dumped on the mountain overnight. It has continued to flurry all morning, and the forecast is calling for another possible four inches tonight.

I find Scooter and Clay standing with their snowboards, staring up at the mountain.

“What are you guys doing?” I ask.

Clay points toward one of the highest slopes. “Watching her defy gravity.”

I follow his gaze to see a pink blur flying down the black diamond slope.

Zoey.

“She’s a fucking majestic snowbird,” Scooter mutters.

A crowd gathers, pulling out their phones to video the impressive run.

“I bet she’s hitting damn near sixty miles per hour,” Clay estimates.

“Let’s get up there and chase her,” Scooter says.

“Can’t. We both have clients waiting on us.”

“Oh shit, I forgot about them. We’d better go.”

“Catch you guys later,” I say as they head to collect their afternoon students.

I have four hours before my next lesson. I planned to go back to my place, rest, and eat something, but that fresh snow is too tempting to pass up.

Zoey leads me into the staff locker room as my hand covers my right eye and forces me to take a seat on the bench.

She retrieves a first aid kit from her locker.

“I should call this in,” she says as she unzips the nylon bag.

“Don’t radio Ski Patrol. Corbin will never let me live this down.”