Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MIKE

W ith the snowshoes on, I walk over the snow, making for Little Hope. With the map saved on my phone, it's a simple matter of braving the cold and rucking some basic supplies in case I need to hole up. It's only ten miles, and somebody is waiting for me on the road. Some would say this is foolish, but it's like destiny. What are the chances? Seriously? If somebody calculated them, what are the chances? It's impossible even for an accountant to say.

The snow is coming down more rapidly now. I might've done the foolish thing of walking directly into a blizzard. Even if I'm an accountant now, it's not as if some snow will stop me. Maybe I should've told Jacob and Emma, but I'll be back soon.

Will I, though, with this snow coming down? I can't turn back. It's like a hot piece of metal is in my chest, and my destination is a magnet, pulling me closer and heating me up even more with each step. I can't stop, one foot coming after the other.

I'll message or text them if I'm back too late. It's not the end of the world. This isn't me being exactly what Vanessa called me, is it? Ridiculously, pathetically selfish? Maybe it is. I can't stop to think about that. Finally, I reach the road. There's a snowmobile parked next to a tree, a figure leaning against the tree in the shadow of the sunlight blistering through white clouds.

The figure kicks away from the tree. My heart starts to pound so hard. One foot after the other, feeling like a newborn lamb, I walk toward the figure. I have to do this—no turning back. There's no other choice.