In minutes, a fresh layer of white blankets the world. I lean into the throttle, squinting through the blur of snow at the thin gray ribbon of a trail that’s fast disappearing under gusts that slap and whirl. My visor frosts over, breath fogging the inside until I’m basically driving blindfolded.
“You’re not going to stop me, storm!” I shout into the wind. “I’m making it to the festival and then making it back home. Fate can kiss my frosted ass cheeks.”
The wind builds into a wall so strong the snowmobile barely inches forward. Every gust shoves me, steals air from my lungs, turns the snowmobile into a bucking beast I can barely control. I hunch low, coaxing it through the drifts, squinting into a blur of white.
A crosswind slams into me from the side. The left ski catches. The sled jerks. The world tilts.
Suddenly, I’m airborne, weightless, flying before the ground rushes up and smacks into me. The snowbank swallows me whole, and cold explodes around me, shoving icy fingers into my sleeves, crawling down my collar, drenching my jeans, filling every possible gap. The wind is muffled, sound collapsing to the faint crunch of settling ice.
“Butteredfuckingbiscuits,” I cough as I claw my way free, yanking off my helmet and goggles. My hair shakes out in wet, strands, scattering ice crystals everywhere.
The snowmobile’s tipped like a drunk elk. I stumble over, grab the handlebars, and heave. By some miracle, I get it upright.
“Yes!” I pant. “Girl power!”
I climb back onto the seat, every muscle trembling from the effort and the cold. My gloves are soaked, my nose is running, and I can’t feel my toes.
I jam the starter. The engine coughs once, twice. Then sputters and dies.
“Come on,” I mutter, twisting the throttle again. Nothing. I try again. And again. And again. Each time the machine gives one pathetic whine and goes quiet.
I sit there for a second, chest heaving, snow melting down my back in cold rivulets.
“What in the fondant fuckery?” I yell at the silent woods, voice echoing off the trees. “You have got to be kidding me!”
I glance toward the peak, though it’s just a blur of white now. I can’t walk the rest of the way, not in this storm, and shifting into my Arctic fox form isnotan option. Shifting anytime leading up to Solstice will announce to the Elders that I want to be included in the mating ceremony. It’s basically sending fate an RSVP saying,yes, please, mate me right up, and no, thank you. I’m not volunteering for another round of humiliation and heartbreak.
I pick up my bag, check my phone, (zero service, naturally), shove a handful of marshmallows into my mouth like battlefield rations, and start walking.
The cold is a knife in my lungs. Pines lean toward me, their branches heavy with snow. I pull my scarf up to my nose and push forward, sequined boots punching little holes into the white. Minutes blur into a rhythm—breath and crunch, breath and crunch—until my brain starts narrating my own documentary,Sequined and Afraid.
“This is how I die,” I say out loud, breath puffing into the storm. “Freezing to death on the side of a mountain. A big pink beacon for the packs when they come back from the festival. At least I won’t be alive to be embarrassed.”
I snort at myself, then shake my head. “No. You know what? I can do this. I have snacks. I have my wits about me, or whatever it is people say to prove they’re smart. I’ve already summoned every millennial spirit guide by yellinggirl power.I am not letting the Winter Solstice beat me for the second year in a row.”
Ahead, a smear of gray threads up into the storm. I stop, squinting through the curtain of snow.
“Smoke…” I murmur, my breath bursting out in a cloud.
And smoke means fire. And fire means heat. Fire also means someone built it. A person. People. Civilization. Maybe even baked goods.
Relief hits so fast it’s dizzying. “Ha! See that, Solstice? I win!”
I break into an awkward, stiff-legged jog toward the promise of heat. Cold needles my legs, my fingers are numb inside my mittens, and every breath tastes like frostbite. The wind claws at my coat, dragging me sideways, but I keep going.
By the time the cabin comes fully into view through the storm, I’m crusted in frost like a sugar cookie. Yellow light glows behind the windows, soft and golden, spilling across the snow. There’s warmth, shelter, fire. I could cry.
I flex my fingers, trying to get feeling back, and wade through the snow to the door. “Please don’t be a murderer,” I whisper, lifting my hand to knock. “Please don’t be a murderer.”
“I don’t plan on murdering anyone,” a low voice says behind me, “but that could always change.”
I scream, spin around, and come face-to-face with a man who looks like one of those lumberjack TikTok guys who are the perfect thirst traps. Except this man is right in front of me.
And he’s holding an axe.
His white thermal shirt is stretched tight across broad shoulders and biceps that are no strangers to manual labor. A flannel jacket, dusted with snow, hangs over one thick forearm. His dark hair shot through with gray is damp from the stormand clinging to his forehead. A close-cut beard frames his jaw, peppered with silver that does unspeakable things to my blood pressure.
He’s older. Mid-forties, maybe. Not the dad bod, third row SUV kind of older, but the fixes-things-with-his-hands-and-has-opinions-about-whiskey kind of mature.
