Page 3

Two

Jake

I t’s a day off from Mountain Rescue, and my little niece Ellie doesn’t need babysitting today. That means only one thing for me lately: fishing.

There’s a folding chair and a cooler with a couple of beers on the grassy bank, and I’m stretched out in the chair, ankles crossed and arms folded over my chest. The line’s in the water, and my old baseball cap is dipped low over my eyes. Overhead, the sun blazes.

Never used to have such old man hobbies, but over the last couple years, making dangerous climbs and pulling white water stunts has lost its shine for me. Taking those risks feels so dumb now.

Sure, in my twenties I used to be all-in on the macho mountain culture, competing with the other guys around here to climb harder, run faster, swim the most dangerous currents.

Being able to shift boulders, chop wood, and run from the center of town to the highest peak was a point of pride for me.

How else could I stroke my own ego? How could I know if I measured up?

But ever since I held Ellie in my arms as a tiny baby, her little fingertips still puckered from being inside her mom, those things have seemed so goddamn trivial. Who cares if I can flash my way up a finicky route on the rock face? Who cares if I can kayak off a waterfall?

There’s a little girl out there who needs her uncle alive and kicking. Not as much as she needs her mom and dad, sure… but still.

It’s good to be needed.

So: three years ago I held that baby and something shifted inside me. Now I’m one of those grumpy old bastards who spends their free time fishing and carving wooden toys. Ellie chews ‘em all over, gets tooth marks in the wood, but I don’t mind that. So long as she’s having fun.

She hasn’t nailed fishing just yet. We’ve tried. She doesn’t have the patience to sit still and let the fish come to us, but hopefully one day she’ll like this too. What’s not to like? It’s meditative. Like napping with your eyes open, and Ellie loves naps after she stops fighting ‘em.

Groaning out a sigh, I shift in the chair to get comfier.

It creaks beneath me but holds my bulk well, and my eyes drift closed as the sun warms my skin.

Shouldn’t have worn a flannel shirt this morning, even with the sleeves rolled—should’ve stuck to a t-shirt.

The breeze may be cool in these mountains, but on a bright day the sun can cook you in your clothes.

The wind sweeps over the grass, rustling the blades together. The river slinks past, quiet except for the occasional plink of a fish, burbling serenely over rocks. It’s deep but calm by the time it reaches this valley.

I crack one eye to check my line. No bites yet.

I’m gusting out a breath, settling in for a long wait, when I see it. A flash of white, coming downriver. At first I think it’s sunlight against fish scales, and I sit up and reach for my rod before my brain finally computes what I’m seeing.

A dress. A white dress, drifting along the surface of the river, swirling around… a woman.

Holy shit.

My body launches out of the folding chair, and icy cold water fills my boots and soaks into my jeans before I even realize I’m wading in.

Instincts have taken over, along with all that Mountain Rescue training, and my core tenses as the river current tugs at me below the surface.

It’s weaker here than further east, but it’s still enough that I stagger sideways.

Just for one step, before I brace myself and stand firm.

My throat goes dry as the young woman drifts closer.

Is she…?

Is she dead?

The woman in white floats face up, her ghostly dress twisting and billowing in the water. Her eyes are closed, and there are cuts and scrapes visible all over her bare skin. Can’t tell if she’s breathing.

“Fuck,” I mutter, taking another two careful steps to put myself in her path. Dread has my shoulders bunched up around my neck.

And listen, I’ve seen plenty of bodies in my time.

Working in Mountain Rescue, it’s unavoidable.

Folks get caught out by rock slides, by storms, by walking off the path in the dark.

By bears and snake bites and wildfires. Sometimes they simply get lost and wander into the wilderness, and we can’t always find them in time, especially if no one reports them missing.

That doesn’t make it any easier. Every single time, it’s a punch to the throat.

This girl, though…

She’s so out of place in these mountains. You don’t wear a dress like that to go hiking. And I know that looks have nothing to do with how tragic an accident is, but… even banged up and waterlogged, she’s so fucking beautiful.

My chest aches, and I reach out just as she’s swept into my arms.

“Mph,” I grunt.

There’s nothing to her, not really, but the extra weight of her smacking into my chest is enough to push me back a few steps. The current sucks hungrily at my legs, and my boots skid against the rocky riverbed.

Fear spikes, but I push it down. Not helpful.

“Come on.” The young woman is cold as I gather her up, her head lolling against my shoulder. Like she’s been in the river a fair while. That’s not good. “Let’s get out of here and get warm.”

Maybe she’s dead. Maybe I’m chatting to a corpse, holding a dead body against my chest bridal-style, but I can’t let my brain follow that thought.

It’s too fucked up, too tragic, too eerie to think about.

Instead I grit my teeth and wade back to the riverbank, the current tugging at my legs all the while.

Her dress drags through the water, weighing us down.

The current is calmer by the bank. My muscles bunch and flex as I scoop the woman higher against my chest, holding her out of the water as I clamber carefully up the bank and out of the river. Her soaked dress dangles, sticking to my wet jeans.

“Okay.” It’s a relief to be out of the water, but as I lay the woman down on the grass, a new fear sets in. Now what? The nearest town is miles and miles from here. “Okay, sweetheart. Let’s check if you’re breathing.”

Her head tips back easily under my hands, her lips parting so sweetly. My face is frozen in a grimace as I lean over her, straining to feel the puff of breath on my cheek.

Nothing.

Or—nothing I can feel, anyway.

“Shit,” I say. “Okay.”

My fingers knit together and I place the heel of my palm on her sternum. Can’t help but notice the goosebumps prickling over her bare skin now that we’re out on the grassy bank—were those there before? Can a dead body make new goosebumps?

Christ. I’m trained in this, and yet this young woman in white has thrown me fully off kilter. Every moment is jerky; every thought is like sludge in my skull.

Ah, ah, ah, ah.

Staying alive. Staying alive.

Ah, ah, ah, ah…

My hands pump her chest to the rhythm of that cheesy disco song, just like I was taught in my very first week of Mountain Rescue training.

The pressure is enough to get her body going, but not enough to fracture ribs, and yet she still feels so small and delicate where she’s splayed beneath me on the grass.

I’m like a hulking monster leaning over her, my face stuck in a perma-scowl.

Cranking her rib cage like a set of bellows.

After chest compressions, I block her nose and breathe into her mouth, watching her lungs inflate out of the corner of my eye. Then another breath, then back to chest compressions. Every second that passes makes my heart sink even further.

Soaked to the skin, kneeling on the river bank in the breeze, the cold seeps through my veins and sinks into my marrow.

Because it’s not working. She’s just lying there, sprawled like a broken doll, and what if I saw her too late? What if she’s long dead? What if—

“Gaaah!”

The drowned woman sits bolt upright like she’s been electrified, sucking in a desperate breath. We stare at each other. Her eyes are saucer-wide, and our noses are an inch apart.

Spots of color spread over her cheeks, and I’ve never been so goddamn glad to see someone blush.

She’s okay. She’s gonna be okay.

Then the drowned woman turns her head, coughs once, and vomits on the grass. It misses my legs, at least.

Well. There goes my peaceful day of fishing.