Well, he did not say that. Fucking, or fault. He did, however, make sure that I was aware that no one would be able to come help me until tomorrow, and that I needed to be strong. Even though, of course, we both knew what the results of a match between me and an overnight snowstorm would be.

Storm: 100. Hannah Arroyo: dead.

“The weather’s not that bad.” A wave of static almost drains the voice on the other side of the line.

Ian Floyd’s voice.

Because, for some reason, he’s here. Coming. For me.

“It’s a—it’s a storm, Ian. Are you—please, tell me you’re not just strolling outdoors when the worst storm of the year is just hours from starting.”

“I’m not.” A pause. “It’s more of a brisk walk.”

I close my eyes. “In a storm. A blizzard. Winds of at least thirty-five miles per hour. Heavy snowfall and no visibility.”

“You might be wasted in engineering.”

“What?”

“You’re really good at meteorology stuff.”

I cannot feel my legs; my teeth are chattering; every time I breathe, my skin feels like it’s been chewed on by a horde of piranhas. And yet, I find the strength to roll my eyes. At least the cranky bitch inside my heart is holding strong. “You’d love it, wouldn’t you? If I were busy giving the weather on local news instead of at NASA with you.”

The winds are blowing holes through my eardrums. I honestly have no idea how I can hear a smile in his “Nah.”

He’s insane. He cannot be here in Norway. He isn’t even supposed to be in Europe. “Did AMASE change their mind on sending help?” I ask. “Have the storm forecasts changed?”

“They haven’t.” Whenever the static dips, I hear a low, oddly familiar noise through the satphone. Ian’s breathing, I suspect, heavy and loud and faster than normal. Like he’s grunting his way through hazardous ground. “You’re approximately thirty minutes from my current location. Once I get to you, we’ll have a sixty-minute trek to safety. Which means that we should be able to just barely avoid the storm.”

The second he says the word trek, my stupid brain decides to attempt to rotate my ankle. Which leads to me biting my chapped, frozen lips to swallow a whimper. A terrible idea, as it turns out. “Ian, nothing of what you just said makes sense.”

“Really?” He sounds amused. How? Why? “Nothing?”

“How do you even know where I am?”

“GPS tracker. On your Iridium phone.”

“It’s impossible. AMASE said they couldn’t activate the tracker. The sensors aren’t working.”

“AMASE isn’t within range, and the coming storm was probably interfering.” A strong gust of wind lifts, and for a painfully gelid moment it’s everywhere: whooshing around me, piercing inside my lungs, making its way into my ears. I try to curl my body away, but it does nothing to stop the freezing air. I dig myself only deeper into the snow and jostle my stupid ankle.