Page 62 of Grump Hard
The only thing that matters is finding Holly.
The logging trail entrance is marked by a weathered wooden sign that’s already half-buried in snow. I click on the flashlight just beyond the final streetlight and push into the trees.
The forest swallows me immediately.
The wind is slightly less fierce here, blocked by the dense evergreens, but the darkness is absolute. My flashlight cuts a narrow beam through the swirling snow, illuminating maybe ten feet ahead before the light is swallowed by white.
“Holly!” I shout, my voice instantly swept away by the wind. “Holly, can you hear me?”
Nothing but the howl of the storm.
I push forward, following what I think is a trail, though it’s hard to be certain with the snow coming down so fast. My boots sink into drifts that reach my shins, then my knees. Every step is a battle, my muscles burning with the effort.
But I don’t stop.
I can’t stop.
Because Holly is out here somewhere, possibly hurt, and I’ll be damned if I let this be the way her light snuffs out.
My mind keeps replaying our conversation this afternoon. Her tears, her honesty, her wisdom. The way she looked at me when she asked if I needed her, with that sweet, brave openness that sliced my heart to pieces.
God, yes. I need her.
I need her like I need air, like my next heartbeat. She’s shown me what I’ve been missing, what I’ve been running from.
I just hope I get the chance to tell her everything she’s made me see.
And how much she means to me.
“Holly!” I shout again, pausing to sweep my flashlight in a wide arc. “Holly!”
Still nothing.
I come to a fork in the trail and have to make a choice. Left or right….
I choose right—following the loop around the ridge—and keep moving, my breath coming in harsh rasps, my face numb with cold.
The snow is relentless, piling up faster than seems possible. The drifts are getting deeper, harder to push through. I have to use my hands to grab onto tree branches, pulling myself forward when the wind gets too intense.
How long have I been searching? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Sixty? Time has grown tricky, stretchy, the way it does in a crisis.
I have to find her.
She has to be okay.
She has to be.
“Holly!” My voice is hoarse now, raw. “Please! Holly!”
The wind throws my words back in my face, but I push forward. The alternative—turning back, giving up, accepting that she might be lost out here—is unthinkable. A beat later, I stumble over a hidden root and go down hard, landing face-first in a drift.
For a moment, I just lie there, exhausted, my body demanding I rest.
But I force myself back to my feet.
At least the trail—if I’m still on it—is all downhill now as it winds back into town. I follow it, hope flickering in my chest. Maybe she had the same idea. Maybe she realized the storm was too dangerous and turned back toward the village.
The trees begin to thin. Soon, I can make out lights in the distance, the flickering of the shops on Main still strong enough to be seen through the driving snow. I reach the exit to the trail and stand there in the knee-high accumulation for a beat.
