Page 30 of Run Wild Omega

“I will. Bye.”

I hang up and toss the phone onto the couch cushion.

Denver.

He’s already halfway there, moving on with his day, with his pack, while I sit here suffocating in my own skin.

I look around my apartment. The walls, the sage green paint, the thrift store furniture—it’s all just stuff trapping me.

I need air. I need the mountain.

My eyes drift to the gear rack by the door. My backpack is there, my hiking boots.

I shouldn’t go out alone. Not in winter.

But the idea of sitting here for hours, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sun to rise so I can go to work… I can’t do it.

I’ll go for a short hike. Just to the ridge above the tree line. I know the trail; I’ve walked it a hundred times. I’ll be back by dinner. I’ll get the movement out of my system, come home, shower, and sleep.

It’s a good plan. A rational plan.

I pack fast, shoving water bottles, energy bars, and an extra thermal into my pack. I check the battery on my headlamp. Full. I grab my beacon and my radio, clipping them to my belt.

I pull on my boots, lacing them tight.

I’m not going to die. I’m just going to breathe.

The drive to the trailhead is a blur of snow and shadow. I leave the Jeep in the empty lot, gravel crunching under my boots as I step out. It’s cold, colder than it was in town, a biting wind that cuts right through my thermal. I welcome it.

I start hiking.

The silence of the woods hits me immediately. It’s not the empty silence of my apartment; it’s a living, breathing quiet. Pine trees tower over me, their branches heavy with snow, and the only sound is the rhythmic crunch, crunch of my boots breaking the crust.

My headlamp cuts a cone through the gathering twilight, illuminating the path ahead.

At first, my mind is still loud. The restlessness is a vibration in my teeth. I replay the phone call with Leo, the image of Mara’s happy face, the memory of Wyatt’s hand on mine. But as I climb, the altitude and the exertion start to work their magic.

The hum fades.

I focus on the mechanics. Lift knee. Extend leg. Breathe.

My heart rate picks up, a steady thud in my chest, but for the first time all day, it feels clean. The ghosts of Marcus and Wyatt are pushed out by the sheer physical demand of the ascent. I don’t have the mental energy to mourn a past that doesn’t exist when I’m using every ounce of strength to climb a mountain.

This is why I do it. This is why I love it. Up here, there’s no Omega, no Alpha, no history. There’s just the mountain and the next step.

I pass the tree line, the vegetation thinning out until the world is just rock and ice. The wind is stronger here, whistling over the crags, tugging at my clothes. I should turn back. The sun is dipping low, painting the western peaks in violet and blood-orange.

I check my watch. 5:15 p.m.

I should go back. I know I should.

But the quiet in my head is too seductive. For the first time in hours, the static is gone. If I go back to the apartment now, the noise will return. The memories will be waiting on the couch.

“Just to the outcropping,” I mutter, the wind stealing my voice. “Just to the ridge. Then I’ll turn.”

I push on.

The trail gets steeper here, treacherous. The snow covers loose scree, making every step a gamble. I have to use my hands, scrambling over boulders, digging my fingers into frozen cracks. My gloves are thin, and the cold seeps through, numbing my fingertips, but I don’t stop.