Page 79 of Run Wild Omega

Then I see it.

Sweet Creek doesn’t look different. The main street is the same—Hartwell Café on the corner, the hardware store, Nora’s bookstore with its purple awning. The Lodge sits on the hill above, its windows glowing amber against the snow. The pine trees that line the road are frosted white, and the creek that gives the town its name is frozen solid along the edges.

But the people are different.

They’re standing in clusters. Outside the post office, a group of three women huddle together, their heads bent toward a shared phone screen. Outside the gas station, two men talk in low voices, glancing up as our convoy passes. On the porch of the general store, old Carl Whitmore is holding court with a handful of listeners, gesturing broadly like he’s reenacting something.

They all look up when the trucks go by. Every single one of them.

I sink lower in the seat.

“They’re not hostile,” Mom says quietly, reading my posture. “They’re just… talking.”

“About me.”

“About the avalanche. It’s a small town, Tess. Something this big happens, people process it by sharing information. It’ll pass.”

I don’t respond. I watch the faces scroll past the window—curious, concerned, a few that look judgmental—and I feel the familiar crawl of shame climb up my spine.

We pass the turnoff to the SAR station. I catch a glimpse of Kyle standing outside, a shovel in his hands, clearing the walk. He sees the trucks and raises a hand in a brief wave. Beside him, Ben from the station is spreading salt on the steps. They both watch us drive by, and I know that in about thirty seconds, Kyle will be inside on the radio, and the entire volunteer network will know that Tess Hartwell is home.

Dad turns onto the residential street where I grew up. The house is the same—white clapboard, blue shutters, the wraparound porch that Dad built the summer I was twelve. But there’s something new in the driveway: a portable ramp, the kind you rent from a medical supply company, bolted to the front steps.

Mom had it installed. While I was unconscious, she had a ramp built onto my childhood home so I could get inside.

Something cracks open in my chest.

Dad pulls into the driveway and cuts the engine. The convoy parks along the street—Wyatt in front, Dylan and Miles behind, taking up most of the curb.

Neighbors will notice. They’ll talk about that too.

“Come on,” Mom says, opening her door. “Let’s get you inside.”

Dad lifts me from the truck. It’s awkward—he’s strong, but I’m dead weight with this cast, and neither of us wants to jostle my leg. I wrap my arms around his neck and try to be small, try not to think about the fact that I’m twenty-seven years old and being carried up a ramp into my parents’ house like a child.

Wyatt appears at Dad’s elbow, ready to take over if needed. I shake my head slightly. Let me have this—my dad carrying me into the house I grew up in. It’s the one thing that doesn’t feel like a spectacle.

The living room is warm. A fire is crackling in the hearth. The furniture has been rearranged to make room for my crutches, which are leaning against the armchair. A folded blanket is draped over the couch, and a stack of pillows sits on the coffee table beside a glass of water and my pill bottles, already lined up in a neat row.

But it’s the dining room that stops me.

Dad carries me past the archway, and I see that the dining table has been converted into a command center. Stacks of paper, a laptop open to what looks like a legal document, a printer humming quietly in the corner. Daniel is sitting at the head of the table, his suit jacket draped over the back of the chair, his sleeves rolled up, a pen in his hand.

He looks up when we enter. “How was the drive?”

“Quiet,” Dad says, setting me down on the couch with a care that makes my eyes sting. “How’s it going here?”

“Good. I’ve been on the phone with Sheriff Reddick for the last hour. We’ve drafted a joint statement.”

I look at Daniel. “A joint statement?”

“From you and the sheriff’s office. A coordinated release that addresses the incident from the perspective of the local authority. It reinforces what Wyatt, Dylan, and Miles said at the press conference—the weather was the cause, the rescue was by the book—but it adds the sheriff’s official endorsement. When the top law enforcement officer in the jurisdiction goes on record saying the guide did nothing wrong, it carries weight.”

I stare at him. “You’ve been setting this up while I was being discharged?”

“I’ve been setting this up since yesterday. The statement is ready for your review. Reddick wants to release it tomorrow morning, which means you need to sign off on the language tonight.”

“What kind of language?”