Page 37 of Broken on the Mountain
The week finally,finallyending.
I jog up the rescue station steps, diesel fumes from the trucks mixing with pine-sharp air. Shift change buzzes around me, night guard's boots scuffle on the gravel as they head home.
I move inside, wave to Martha at the front desk as my pulse hammers too fast for a normal end-of-week rotation.
Because in exactly eight hours, Piper's plane lands.
And I get to see her again.
I move through the morning like I'm on fast-forward. Inventory check flies by, ropes coil smooth and perfect, first aid kits get restocked with the efficiency of someone who wants time tohurry the fuck up.
Knox runs rope drills at one, right before lunch. The team gathers in the bay, and I'm already clipping in before he finishes explaining the sequence.
"Look out. Bit aggressive today, Morrison," Knox observes.
"Just efficient."
"Sure." Knox grins, adjusts his own harness. "Let's see if you can keep up today then."
The drill is simple enough. Rappel, swing, anchor reset, climb. We've done it a thousand times, but today it feels good. My body knows the movements, my muscles are firing in perfect rhythm while my brain counts down hours.
Five and a half until wheels down.
I drop the line, swing wide, catch the anchor point clean.
"Twelve seconds," Jamie Striker calls from below, a stopwatch in hand. "Not bad."
"Not great either," Beau adds, arms crossed, looking like he's carved from the same stone as the mountain. "Your swing was sloppy."
"My swing wasefficient."
"Your swing looked like you were thinking about something else. Try again."
Fair.
Travis is next though, then Knox again. The rhythm settles in the practice area as ropes thump against the wall, carabiners click, and someone curses when their knot catches.
It's familiar. Comfortable. The kind of work that usually centers me.
Except today, everything has a Piper-shaped outline.
I love this. The competence, the team, the purpose. Being useful. Beinggoodat something. But underneath it all runs this electric current of anticipation, the secret thrill that in a few hours, I get to go home and bewantedfor who I am, not what I can do.
My phone buzzes in my pocket during the fourth round. I ignore it and try to focus on the rope, the anchor, the task at hand.
"Morrison, you're up!"
I clip in, drop, swing. Land it perfectly this time.
"Better," Beau grunts. Which from him is practically a standing ovation.
Martha sweeps through the bay at two-thirty with a tray of sandwiches. She sets them on the equipment table, then produces coffee mugs to go with the awesome spread.
"Don't you dare skip lunch," she announces to the room at large. "I didn't make these for decoration."
Knox grabs two sandwiches immediately. Travis takes one, inspects it like he's checking for explosives, then bites in with a satisfied grunt.
Martha slides a mug toward me. Dark roast blend from the professional grade machine inside, steam curling up to meet my nose as I take a long sip.
