Page 4 of Double Exposure

It’s a skier in light blue snow gear.

My “Ryan,” is soft, but he hears something in my voice.

Startled, he jerks around to look at me.

“Someone’s down there.” His gaze follows the trajectory of my gloved finger.

We don’t have time to locate the person with binoculars, but we also don’t need them. The skier glances up, sees what is about to happen, and starts moving toward a dark, rocky ledge jutting out from the snow about thirty feet away from them.

They won’t make it.

If this person is swept up, we're going to have to see where they go down, where they get overcome, and then dig like hell.

How the fuck did this happen?

Before I can calculate anything or understand what I’m doing, I’m off. Crouched low for speed, the skis make a hushed, scraping sound as I fly down the mountain. Ryan is behind me, picking up speed.

We’re fucking idiots.

You can’t outrace an avalanche.