The sky had finally cleared enough for her to see the horizon, and with half of her team still missing, she dug out the Polaris snowmobile from the shed, added another gas can to the back, along with supplies, and took off into the blue-gray day.

The snow blew up around her, pelleting the visor of her helmet and dusting the air as she plowed a track down the road, and then into the deep snow of the fields and wooded areas that led out to Ranger cabin 37.

She’d start there.

The drone of the machine settled inside her, eclipsing her thoughts as she drove. Around her, the air was crisp. To her guess, she had a short window of time before another blizzard socked her in. But such was the way of Alaska in March—temperamental weather as winter wrestled with spring.

She was ready for the summer sunrise. Ready for spring, and the seeds under her grow lamps to sprout, be transplanted into the greenhouse. Ready for the high winds to die, the smell of wildflowers to scent the hills, to hear the river roar behind her house.

She was ready for life.

The thought struck her as she came upon a ridge that overlooked Moose Creek. The west branch of the creek snaked into the forest, nearly all the way to the cabin.

Still, what took her dogs eight hours, she could accomplish in about two on a snowmobile, depending on the terrain.

She gunned the sled down the ridge, riding it with one knee on the seat, looking for drop-offs and debris that might be hidden in the snow.

Yes, she was ready for life. She didn’t know what it was, maybe just the longing for spring, but the storm, the worry had dug into her, turned her heavy.

Not to mention her dad’s words—“You might have healed from the event, but you continue to bleed from the impact.”

She had never considered that her mother’s leaving could cause her to be stuck in a sort of darkness, afraid to move.

Yeah, she needed the sunrise like she needed breath.

Landing on the creek bed, she found it solid, protected almost, from the raging wind that would have swept up drifts, and she settled down into the drive, her eyes peeled for Peyton’s green jacket.

She would have trekked the dogs this way, if she could. With the shallow creek solid with ice, it was the easiest way to travel. The storm, however, obliterated any sign of her dogsled, or even the telltale packing of the snow from a team.

The wind scurried through the trees, along the banks of the creek, sheeting up white, stirring it with the plume her machine churned up. She shivered. She also didn’t work up a sweat on a snowmobile like she did on a dogsled.