Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
My body sways, the effort to keep myself upright almost too much. If I fall right now, there’s no way I could get back up.
Lincoln growls at me, getting in my face. “Don’t be a pussy.”
“You don’t know.” Emotion wells in my throat.
“Am I carrying you?” he snaps. “It’s either walk or be carried.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I’m the asshole who’s keeping you alive.”
“Fuck you!” I snarl back at him. “I’m the one walking on a busted ankle. I’m the one whose feet are probably frostbitten.”
“Cry me a fucking river. Just walk while you do it.”
I ball my hands at my sides, still icy even though I have gloves on, and scream “Fuck you” as loud as I can. The effort hurts my chest and my back, but there’s a tiny bit of a spark in me now.
Lincoln walks back a few steps, still facing me. “Catch me and you can have a free kick to my balls.”
“With a broken ankle? Thanks, asshole.” Glowering, I advance toward him. He turns and keeps walking.
Catching him isn’t an option. It’s all I can do to breathe and move. I had a moment of weakness back there, but I’m myself again. I’m not giving up. If I don’t make it, I’ll fall face-first into the snow while walking.
I close my eyes for a brief second, silently asking my mom and Dalton to send me the strength I need to get back to them.
CHAPTER SIX
Lincoln
Where the fuck is the rescue party? I’m trudging through snow that’s higher than my knees, icy wind whipping my blankets around. When I glance over my shoulder to make sure Trinity’s still there, she raises a gloved hand in the air, probably flipping me off.
I have to keep her moving and pissing her off is the most effective way of doing that. Do I really think she’s a pussy? No, but calling her one lit a fire under her ass.
Realistically, we’re probably only covering about a mile an hour in this snow. I think we’ve been walking for around fifteen hours, traveling north of the crash site because that’s the direction the plane was flying. I hoped we’d eventually reach civilization, but so far, we’ve seen nothing but snow and trees.
We could stop at the next densely forested area we find, but I don’t think we should. With wet feet, we’re on borrowed time. I stop my train of thought as soon as it goes there.
In hockey, if you think you could lose, you’re far more likely to. You have to go into a game with a laser focus on doing whatever it takes to win. That’s how I’m approaching this situation. It’s not about the number of miles or the temperature. It’s about my personal drive. No quitting.
I didn’t tell Trinity I was hoping rescuers could track us through my phone because I didn’t want to get her hopes up. I’ve got a friend who’s an FBI agent and I know they can do some sophisticated shit with phones these days.
I turned the phone off to preserve the battery. Maybe that was the wrong move. Maybe it’s already dead anyway.
This can’t be the way I go out. There are so many things I never got to do. The pro hockey record that seemed so important a couple of days ago feels completely meaningless now.
Living. That’s what matters. Making it through this without either of us losing body parts to frostbite.
I’m worried about Trinity. Pain and exhaustion are taking a toll on her. And while I’ll carry her until my legs won’t walk another step if I have to, I can’t walk a hundred-plus miles in these conditions.
Part of me wants to get out my phone and record a message for my dad if my phone has any life left. There’s a chance rescuers will find it and share it with him. But Trinity will know how dire I think things are if I do, and I don’t want that.
“Lincoln.” Trinity’s voice is hoarse, barely audible over the wind. I turn and see her pointing. “Light.”
I squint at the faint glow in the distance. How could there be a light out here? Blinking, I try to get a better look at it, but there’s snow blowing everywhere.
“I don’t know,” I say. “You think so?”
“It’s a light.” Her voice is stronger now. “We have to walk that way.”
I guess if there’s even a chance, we should do it. I turn to the right, leading her in the direction she was pointing.
This place is darker and quieter than anywhere I’ve ever been. There are no city lights. Just the stars. Our heavy breaths are the only sounds until the howl of a distant wolf breaks the near silence.
As we draw closer, my pulse kicks up as I realize Trinity is right. We’re walking toward a light. I break into a run, which is really just a faster walk in all the snow. After another quarter of a mile or so, I see that the bright outdoor light is mounted on a pole that’s around twenty feet tall. In its glow, I make out the shape of a roofline.