“Don’t eat the yellow snow,” Tony reminded him. “Or the brown.”
“Thanks, Einstein.”
“Did Einstein say that one?” Tony was serious.
“No, Tony.”
“My head hurts,” Tony continued. “My eyeballs hurt, my legs hurt, my lungs hurt, even my ass hurts. Pretty much everything hurts.”
“Just wait till tomorrow.” Matt chewed his snowball. “It’ll be even worse.”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me. After this trip I’m going to really need a vacation.”
Matt pulled out his phone, switched it on, and held it up—the signal was stronger up here. “My dad finally texted me.” He turned it off, tucking it back into his chest pocket. He fought the urge to check it. He didn’t care, he reminded himself, what his dad had written.
“Oh yeah? Nice,” Tony said, somewhat sarcastically. “So what did he say this time?”
“Same old crap,” Matt lied. “Work shit, I don’t know. Trying to apologize and promising to make it up to me.”
“Of course.” Tony snorted. “He’s just trying to jerk you around. As usual.”
Matt didn’t answer.
“You gonna call back?” Tony ate his own snowball, after carefully checking that it was completely pristine. “I wouldn’t do it, dude.”
“I don’t know.” The battery was already half out of juice. “I guess I will later.”
“Let him stew a little longer. Or better yet, take a picture of the two smoking hot babes and send it to him. Let him know how much fun you’re having.” Tony’s grin was evil. “Knowing him, he’ll probably be jealous.” Matt figured Tony had heard the stories before, mainly by eavesdropping on his parents, who found out from other neighbors, how Matt’s dad had left his mom for a twenty-two-year-old college student. Matt’s dad was a professor of psychology (of all things), yet somehow didn’t get the memo that he was just another middle-aged guy with a paunch and the misbelief that having an affair with a young woman would somehow prevent him from getting old and dying. Classic textbook case, Matt thought.
Matt’s dad left six years ago, moving first to an apartment in downtown Des Moines and then to a condo that he shared with the then–twenty-two-year-old Shannon, was now twenty-eight. No one thought that would last, and even though it had been six years, up until last week Matt had still held out hope his parents would reconcile. That his dad would move back in and things would go back to the way they were. He squeezed his second sandwich flat, fingers puncturing right through the bread, remembering his dad’s news, and all that hope suddenly drained out, leaving an empty pit in his stomach no amount of food could fill.
“Look, Matt,” Tony continued. “I know he’s your dad and everything . . .” He sighed. “Just don’t let him off so easy. Don’t let him walk all over you.”
“I know.” Matt stared at his sandwich, wanting to eat it, but decided it would be smarter to wait. “And I don’t let him walk all over me,” he said quietly, not wanting to believe that’s what Tony really thought—that like his name, he was something to wipe your feet on. But what his best friend said made sense, as if the lack of oxygen had increased Tony’s brain cells. He should hang out on mountaintops more often.
Carter trudged over, all loaded up, carrying a long pole and a shovel. “We’ll be heading out in about an hour.”
“Where you going?”
“Gonna check the snowpack on this ridge.” He waved the pole to the higher peak rising up on the left side. “We’ll be heading down that way.”
“What’s that?” With Carter’s coat unzipped, Matt saw what appeared to be a large stopwatch strapped to his chest.
“My AV beacon,” Carter answered. “I always have a shovel, snow probe, and my beacon.” He blinked at Tony and Matt as if they were idiots. “Didn’t Dylan give you one?”
Tony pulled his out. “Sid gave me one.”
“I don’t have one,” Matt said, a bit squeaky with the sudden fear that everyone else knew way more than he did.
Carter sighed, stabbing his pole down. “Dylan can be a bit of a stoner.” He shook his head. “And not in a good way. Hang on, Matt.” He stomped over to where Julie and Dylan were sunning themselves near a large granite rock, sunglasses on.
They watched Carter gesture accusingly to Dylan, and though they didn’t hear everything being said, the words dumbass, hell, snow, ice, transmitter, BC, and what the fuck? were blatantly clear.
“Well, Carter sounds pissed,” Tony whispered. “What’s BC mean?”
“I don’t know,” Matt said, panic swelling in his chest. “Uh, backcountry?”
Carter came back with another transmitter. “Here.” He tossed it to Matt—a small black plastic knob on a corded necklace. Matt turned it over in his hands, reading the word TRACKER2 on the front.
“It’s already set to transmit, so just wear it under your jacket,” Carter explained.
“Thanks.” Matt slipped it over his neck and nestled it against his thermal shirt. “Doesn’t Dylan need one?”
“Yeah, but Dylan doesn’t mind.”
Matt nodded, seeing the nonchalant way Dylan tossed it over to Carter, smiling and laughing and waving him off.
Carter clipped into his skis and adjusted his goggles and gloves. He leaned back and looked up, his eyes searching the empty sky as if the explanation to something would be found up there. “It’s always amazing to me how smart people can be so stupid.” He pushed off toward the ridge with a grunt.
Matt smiled. The more time he spent with Carter, the more he liked him.
“All right, my newbies!” Dylan jumped to his feet, waving his arms like a television preacher. “Time to cruise! We gotta get a few more runs in before we lose this day!”
When Matt stood up, something popped in his back. He groaned and cracked his neck.
“God, you’re old,” Tony said. “You sound like my dad does after shooting hoops.”
The last thing Matt wanted was a reminder that Tony’s dad played basketball with him in the driveway every weekend. He watched Leah bend over and clip into her skis, red curls shining like fire against her green parka. He had wanted to go over and talk to her during lunch, but she sat down next to Julie, heads tilted together in such a way that it seemed to be a private conversation.
“So what’s the deal with Leah?”
“Huh? What deal?” Tony wrinkled his face, then squinted in their direction. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” Matt remembered how Sid had said Leah wasn’t his girlfriend, and also how disheartened Sid had seemed by that fact. But maybe he was still trying, Matt thought wryly, wondering if Sid was tenacious. He seriously doubted it. Things had always come easy for Sid. And the only problem with everything being so easy, Matt noted, was that you had no idea what to do when it got hard.
“She’s hot,” Tony admitted. “And I think she likes you.”
“Really? You think?”
“Well, she doesn’t seem repulsed.”
“Thanks.”
“No problemo.” Tony eyed Matt’s sandwich. “You gonna eat that?”
“Later.” Matt folded the bag back around it. “Anyway, she probably has a boyfriend.”
“Probably.” Tony stared at his sub like a dog until Matt shoved it back in his pack. “But I don’t see him anywhere.”
“What does that mean?”
“Whatever you want it to, dude.” Tony leaned back and closed his eyes against the sunlight. “Whatever you want it to.”
• • •
The snow was golden, turning as orange and pink as sherbet in the setting sun.
“This run will take us down through the bowl,” Dylan told Matt, the wide clearing spread out a mile down below them, encircled by thick forest. “The whole run is about three miles total, and then from the bottom we should be able to ski over to the cabin.”
“Great.” Matt was so tired his legs trembled. He glanced back at Carter, who was perched on a large snow slab two hundred yards up
. Carter pointed his pole at something, then back at Leah, Tony, and Julie, who were in line behind him.
“What’s he waiting for?” Sid asked, leaning over his poles next to Matt.
Exhausted, Matt shrugged. “No clue.” We have to be close to the cabin, he thought, feeling proud he’d handled the whole day without collapsing or completely embarrassing himself.
“C’mon dude!” Dylan hollered. “Go, already!”
Carter shouted something back, before sliding forward into a slow curve over the drift. He carved one complete S before a huge circle splintered around him, cracking open and dropping like a giant sinkhole—with Carter disappearing right into it.
“What the . . . ,” Matt began.
“No!” Dylan spun around, grabbed Matt’s shoulder, and shoved him forward. “Get out of here!”
“W-w-what?” He stared over Dylan’s shoulder trying to figure out where Carter had gone.
“Snow slide!”
“A snow . . . ?”
“Avalanche!”
The word didn’t register immediately. Like a foreign language with a certain translational lag time, it took Matt a second to process the meaning. Fifty yards above them an enormous white cloud billowed, as if something had just exploded. And the plume increased, growing larger and wider as it raced down the slope. It roared like a jumbo jet.
“Go!” Dylan screamed, startling him forward. “Head for those trees!”
Matt could see Sid, already a hundred yards away, going straight downhill. He followed, keeping his tips pointed and parallel, hoping gravity would work in his favor. How fast am I going? he wondered. Thirty miles an hour? Forty? The wind whipped tears from his eyes—he’d forgotten to put on his goggles.
The trees were approaching fast. He was coming at a dead run.
Dead run, thought Matt. A dead run. This is a dead run.
He was trying to outrun death. Literally.
His tip caught in a soft patch of slush and he careened wildly to the right, dangerously close to a lodgepole pine. A branch slapped him in the face, knocking his chin up. Smack! Hard as a two-by-four, and the force spun him around. Backward now, the ground rose underneath him, a wave of snow blowing up beneath his feet. Something snapped, plastic cracking—his skis broke free from the boots, his poles struck out blindly. There was no time to scream, only primal reflexes, and he flailed and bicycled his limbs like a swimmer trying to reach the surface. But this water was frozen, solid as cement. It surrounded him, enveloped him, crushed him. A laser beam of pain streaked through his back and neck when the force of it bent him forward, twisting him in a grotesque pose. He reached for the sky, finally screaming the first thing, the only thing, repeating in his panicked mind.
“Help me!”
But snow came down, blotting out the blue sky, and Matt watched as the whiteness fractured into an exploding prism of light. A thousand rainbows burst behind his eyes.
And then . . . darkness.
• • •
His breath was whisper thin, ragged in his mouth. He swallowed. Blood. His tongue immediately probed the line of teeth to find an empty socket. Upper tooth, behind the canine, but it wasn’t in his mouth.
His first thought: Why can’t I see?
Matt reached to wipe his eyes, but his right arm didn’t move. Nothing did. Only his left fist, pressed close to his nose, wiggled. He inhaled again, but it was a half breath, compressed and tight.
Second thought: It’s a horrible dream. A dream of being buried alive, choking on nothing, gasping like a fish on land.
Third thought: I’m not dreaming.
“No!” His scream gurgled, and blood flew out into the small pocket of air around his head. Red flecks splashing onto gray snow.
Fourth thought: Calm down, calm down, calm down. Don’t panic.
But he did panic. Every muscle contracted, jerking, twisting, fighting.
“Help!” Matt punched the space in front of him, but it was pointless. He had no leverage. He tried twisting his arm, wedging it back and forth against the snow but terrified of what might happen if he freed it. Would more snow fall down?
But panic won. Matt heaved back and forth until he gasped, which took all of ten seconds.
Don’t use up your air, he thought, relaxing his fists. Breathe small. Breathe shallow. How long had it been? A minute? Ten? He wondered how far down he was from the surface.
Matt’s fingers curled tightly, touching something hard against his chest.
The beacon.
Matt fumbled against his zipper, and in the few inches of space he had he was able to grab the rope and tug the receiver up to his chin. He didn’t even know if it was working, or how to turn it on, but in the darkness a cherry-red light pulsed. On, he thought. It must be on. Carter told me so. Bending his head down farther, he watched the screen flash.
SE—SE—SE—SE—SE . . .
He didn’t know what it meant—he hadn’t been told. But he also hadn’t asked. His right arm was still wedged above his head, and his shoulder muscles burned. He squeezed his biceps and triceps, trying to get the blood flowing and the circulation going. He curled his fingers, twisted his wrist. It hurt, but it didn’t hurt so much that he suspected anything was broken. He remembered reaching up and wondered if that meant he was facing up. Or am I upside down? The thought was too awful to bear; bile rose in his throat.
“Don’t puke, don’t puke,” he mumbled. There was no room to be sick in here. He believed if he was upside down his head would be throbbing. But it wasn’t. Not really. He became convinced the light was above him, possibly because the alternative was too awful to contemplate. Maybe there was only a foot of snow above him. Maybe I can dig my way out.
He knew he didn’t have much time. A glance down showed the beacon still blinking, and he hoped that meant they could find him. He slowed down his pulse, his breath. In the intense silence, a sharp needle of doubt poked his brain.
What if everyone was buried? What if no one’s left? What if they were all trapped?
He had to dig. He had to try something. He couldn’t wait for help that might never arrive. Patience was not a virtue right now. It was a death sentence.
With his left hand shaking Matt began to dig. One scoop, another, and a scrape. He gasped. Just keep going, he thought. Don’t think.
He retried his locked right arm, commanding himself to bend his elbow. Bend his wrist. Wiggle fingers. “Dammit,” he swore. “Shit. Hell. Fuck. Piss.” He went through every filthy word he knew, even making up some new ones, then started all over from the beginning. The SE light was still flashing, then made a chirping tweet. He didn’t know what that meant and hoped it didn’t mean the transmitter had stopped. Another cold slither snaked through his guts—sweat pooled under his chin. Despite all the snow he was hot, sweltering. It’s like trying to dig out of my own grave.
Flickering spots appeared, fuzzy needles of black on the outside edges of his vision. He pushed his chest against the wall of ice, fighting down a gagging sensation, and rocked back and forth, trying to make a bigger hole, trying to gain a little more space to breathe. He flexed his toes, clenched every muscle, then released, pushing and pulling. Push, he thought. Pull. Push. Pull. His entire back, from neck to knees, was drenched in sweat. He gained an inch, possibly two. He leaned his head forward and chewed away a chunk of snow and swallowed, still tasting blood.
Another chirp. Same as the last one, but this time he felt it.
It was his phone—nestled down in his pocket. How did it turn back on? He recognized the chirpy birdcall. His mom. She had just left a message.
A sudden sad calm came over him—he wondered what dying would feel like. Would it hurt? Or would he just fade out, lose consciousness, and fall into a permanent sleep? He stopped moving; his breath rattled wetly in his throat. He couldn’t think of what more to do. He was too tired; too tired to push, too tired to make a sound. He pressed his cheek against the snow, relief against his sweaty skin. It was so nice and cold. And
he was so tired. . . .
Pictures reeled through his head, blobs of light taking shape. A backyard swing set, his red tennis shoes and striped socks. He watched himself swing back and forth, making a thin squeal as the chains pulled. He felt the wind through his hair, the sway and tug on his arms and legs, pressure ebbing and flowing as he tried to defy gravity. Up and down. Back and forth. Squeak, squeak. The sound shifted, fell lower, turned into a drone, a jabbering hum, muffled but growing. The white noise broke apart, becoming words. A voice. He understood it. “Here!” It yelled. “Here! I found him!” He opened his eyes; someone was shouting his name. He wanted to yell back, but his tongue was as heavy as a sack of sand in his mouth. He couldn’t seem to get the words out.
“Matt! Matt! Hang on!”
When he blinked again everything was brighter. Louder. Light brought noise, more shouting and grunting and scraping sounds.
“This way! Like this! Careful with that shovel!”
A spiderweb of sunshine cracked through, and with it came air, inflating his lungs.
“He’s alive!” Shadows moved over him. “He’s conscious!”
Another voice bleated, “But where’s Dylan?”
“Keep shoveling! Don’t stop!” Matt recognized Carter’s voice as the snow moved away, revealing his face, then shoulders and torso. His arm was free.
“Matt! Hang on! We’ll get you out!” Carter dug like a terrier, like a person possessed. “Is anything broken?”
“I . . .” Matt’s voice cracked. “I don’t think so.” His legs were still stuck fast, so he pushed his arms against the pile, moving the snow away, feeling like one of those giant sea turtles flailing their flippers as they dug a hole in the sand. When he got down to his thighs he was able to finally break free, one knee, then the second popping up like he was bursting through rubble. His skis were nowhere to be found, but he still had both poles looped around his wrists.
“Oh man, are you lucky!” Carter exhaled and rolled back on his butt with a thud. He held up his beacon. “Looks like these things work.”
“Where’s Tony?” Matt asked, panting. “Where’s Sid?”
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