Page 2 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

I’m already halfway through my second soda when I check my phone again.

Still no texts.

Chris is late. Which is weird, because my big brother is never late. Not when it comes to me. Not when we haven’t seen each other in eight months, and I’m only in Anchorage for one week.

The little restaurant tucked off Fourth Avenue is half empty, but I picked it because it’s quiet, local, and he said it was near where he planned to end his backpacking loop. Some sort of aggressive, unmarked wilderness detour in Glacier Hollow.

I scroll through our last messages, trying not to overreact. My fingers drum against the condensation ring on my glass, a nervous rhythm I don’t even notice until the waitress glances my way. Trying not to let that itch under my skin turn into something worse.

CHRIS (2 weeks ago): Finishing the loop early. Should be back around the 18th. Gonna meet you in town. First beer’s on me, nerd.

ME: Only if you promise not to lecture me about tagging mountain lions again.

CHRIS: Deal. Bring that sarcasm and your bird encyclopedia. I’ll bring the pizza.

That was the last time I heard from him.

I bite the inside of my cheek and glance out the window. Spring’s dirty slush, melted from the snow, lies along the curb, pooling around storm drains and leaving patches of stubborn ice behind. The sky is that washed-out kind of gray that makes everything look tired. A couple in matching parkas walks by, holding hands, their laughter bright and careless, slicing through the gloom like it doesn't belong here. Like they don’t know someone might be missing.

He’s only a few hours late. There could be a hundred reasons why. Maybe his phone died out in the backcountry, or a moose sat on it like some wilderness punchline. Maybe his truck wouldn’t start after sitting too long in the cold. Maybe he got caught behind a landslide or had to help another hiker. But none of those maybes settle the weight in my gut. The longer I sit here, the heavier it gets—like a glacier pressing down, slow and merciless, whispering that something isn’t right.

But I know. I know him.

I push my half-eaten salad aside and call his number again.

Straight to voicemail.

The server walks by with a polite smile, and I realize I’ve been sitting here for nearly an hour.

“Everything okay?” she asks, glancing at the empty seat across from me.

“Yeah,” I lie. “Just waiting for my brother.”

Two days later, I’m standing in the hallway of a squat government building that smells like stale coffee and defeat. Years of apathy have scuffed and stained the beige walls, and the ceiling tiles sag slightly in their frames. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead like angry hornets, flickering just enough to make your eyes hurt if you stare too long. Neglect has left this place feeling forgotten—just like the people it’s supposed to help.

The state trooper looks bored—slouched in his chair like a teenager in detention, fingers tapping idly on the sticky keyboard, chewing gum with a slow, vacant rhythm like I’m a commercial break interrupting his favorite show. His uniform is wrinkled, badge smudged, and he hasn’t even bothered to take off his sunglasses despite being indoors. His fingers hover over the keys with all the urgency of a man trying not to care.

“So, he was last seen heading into Glacier Hollow?”

I nod. “About a week before I flew in. He was going to finish his route, then meet me in Anchorage.”

The trooper types something, not looking at me. “It’s not unusual. People go missing all the time out there. Rough terrain. No cell coverage. No service roads.”

“He didn’t go missing,” I snap before I can stop myself. “He’s experienced. He had a route. He logged his trip with the Parks office. He checks in every time. He’s done this before. Something’s wrong.”

He shrugs, unconcerned. “Maybe he wanted to disappear. People come up here to lose themselves, Miss Calder.”

My stomach turns cold. My nails dig into my palms.

“My brother didn’t come here to disappear. He came here to live. He had a job. A life. And a little sister who flew all the way from Sacramento to see him.”

He finally looks up at me. A sigh. The bureaucratic equivalent of a shoulder shrug.

“We’ll file a missing person’s report. That's really all we can do. But after a week in the bush, odds aren’t great.”

I leave the station and step into the late afternoon chill; the door thudding shut behind me like a final verdict. The air hits my lungs sharp and unforgiving, carrying the scent of exhaust, wet pavement, and the kind of hopelessness that clings. A weak sun hovers just above the buildings, casting long shadows that stretch like fingers reaching for nothing. And in the middle of it all, one thing rises above the fog of disbelief and doubt—a certainty, raw and stubborn, blooming in my chest like a flare in the dark.

They’re not going to find him. Because they’re not going to look. If I want answers, I’ll have to find them myself.

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