José glanced into the rearview mirror of the Audi. “You look nice, Miss Ellison.”

“Thank you,” I responded, turning to look out the window at the buildings passing by.

Our home was hidden away south of Highway 66, and the magazine was almost due north. It took José just over ten minutes to reach the highway, and he turned south, driving the opposite way from everyone else on their way to their jobs, and the tourists on their way to the mountain base. The sand trucks were out in full force, scraping a path toward Estes Park. We passed resorts and inns, a river and a cemetery … so many things I’d never paid attention to because they weren’t bars or restaurants without a dress code.

José turned down Mills Drive, and my heart began to race. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I had a feeling I was about to humiliate myself. We passed several buildings, all brown and filled with matching vehicles. Farther down from the rest, sat a small building with two garages and several emergency trucks parked along a circle drive. I sat up when I saw the sign.

INTERAGENCY CENTER

ROCKY MOUNTAIN NATIONAL PARK

I sat up, touching the glass with my fingertips. I wasn’t sure if their crew stuck around throughout the year, but if I was going to be down the street for forty hours a week, I hoped not.

Next door to the fire station was a large RV park, and a quarter-mile of trailers dotted the landscape. Across the street from the station and the park was a new steel building. A driveway curved in front of the entrance, also continuing back toward another, smaller steel building that might have served as a garage, or storage building, or possibly both. The MountainEar office was small, a non-descript steel structure, newly finished on the outskirts of town.

I waved goodbye as José pulled away. He’d already promised to return in an hour. I stood on the sidewalk, inadequately dressed for the plummeting temperature. The clouds hung low over the peaks, and the snow had already spotted my hair like feathers, disappearing on contact.

A dually truck and gooseneck trailer barreled down the road toward the RV Park, all ten tires sloshing against the wet asphalt. I took a quick step back before a wave of water and ice soaked me from bun to boot heel. I walked toward the main building, passing the sign that read: MOUNTAINEAR MAGAZINE. My ankles wobbled with each step, feeling less confident and more ridiculous the closer I came to the front door. My hand hesitated to reach for the door handle, but I opened it, sighing in relief when the heat warmed my cheeks.