Page 27 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
"You have a radio," I say slowly.
"For emergencies."
"What frequency?"
He doesn't answer. Doesn't need to. I'm already moving, reaching for the radio before he can stop me. Turn the dial to the active channel, adjust the volume.
A woman's voice cuts through the static, professional and clipped. "—teams three and four, report positions. Weather's breaking in approximately six hours. We need to be ready to move at first light."
"Copy that, Bryn."
Bryn. Bryn Calder.
I look at Chris. His jaw is tight, hands clenched into fists at his sides. He's not moving, not reaching for the radio. Just sitting there like a man watching his own execution.
"You've been listening to your sister," I say. Not a question. An accusation.
"Turn it off."
"She's out there coordinating the local, unofficial search and rescue effort, and you're—what? Hiding in the woods playing ghost while she?—"
"Turn it off." His voice is low, dangerous.
"She thinks you're dead, Chris. She's mourning you, and you're close enough to hear her voice but you won't?—"
"I said turn it off!" He lunges for the radio, but I hold it out of reach.
"Why? Why listen if you're never going to answer? Why torture yourself like this?"
"Because it's the only way I know she's safe!" The words explode out of him, raw and desperate. "Because if they think I'm dead, they have no reason to go after her. But if they know I'm alive—if they even suspect—they'll use her to get to me. They'll hurt her, kill her, make me watch. I won't—I can't?—"
His voice breaks. He sits down hard, head in his hands, shoulders shaking with something that's rage and grief tangled together.
I set the radio down carefully. Bryn's voice continues in the background, discussing wildlife patterns with Nate, unaware that her brother is less than two miles away listening to every word. The weight of it fills the small space—all that loss, all that isolation, all that unnecessary pain.
I sit beside Chris. Don't touch him, don't speak. Just sit, sharing the weight of his pain because words won't help and touch might shatter what little control he's holding onto.
Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Time loses meaning in the small bubble of firelight.
Finally, Chris speaks, voice rough and broken. "She's the only family I have left. After our parents died, we grew close…” His voice drifts off and he swallows hard. "She's everything. And I'm keeping her alive by staying dead."
"You're also destroying both of you," I say quietly. "Her with grief, you with isolation."
"Better destroyed than dead."
"Is it?" I turn to face him. "Chris, look at yourself. You're infected, malnourished, living in a tiny shelter. How long before the mountain kills you? How long before the isolation does? And when that happens, Bryn loses you anyway—but this time, she'll never know what really happened. Never get closure. Never get justice."
He lifts his head, meets my eyes. They're red-rimmed, haunted, but still fighting. "What's your point?"
"My point is we end this. We finish what you, Joel and Tate started. We build a case so strong, so public, so airtight that the network can't retaliate without proving our accusations. And then you go home."
"That's impossible."
"So is surviving eleven months alone on a mountain. So is walking away from a punctured lung and treating an old shrapnel wound with a camping first aid kit." I lean forward, holding his gaze. "You're already doing impossible things, Chris. Do one more."
He stares at me like I'm speaking a foreign language. Like the concept of hope is so alien he can't process it.
"Why do you care?" he asks finally.
