know there is more—much more—but memories are thundering toward me and I have to focus. I can’t be triggered. Not here. Not now. Not with Aksel.
I put my palms against my thighs, grinding my teeth. I have to block it. I have to make it stop.
Remembering Berlin is like remembering Tunisia; if I let that memory in, I let them all in.
I fold the knife blade back into its handle but keep holding it tight.
For several minutes we sit in heady silence.
Then, a deep rumbling sounds outside our cave, breaking it.
A fresh speckling of snowflakes dots the windshield.
Our eyes lock.
“Now we climb?” I ask.
For the first time, Aksel looks worried.
Aksel opens the sunroof and swiftly hoists himself through it. “Wait here,” he mutters.
I don’t wait.
Though my shoelaces are a frozen, tangled knot, I manage to slide my sneakers halfway on. Aksel has scaled the wall four meters before I scramble onto the roof.
As soon as I am out of the Defender, my teeth start to chatter.
Swirling gusts of wind pile snow onto our tomb.
“The w-w-winds changed?” I call up to him.
Aksel leaps backward and lands on the hood of the car.
He scowls. “If the drift blows through the snowbank it will collapse and—”
“Bury us,” I finish.
Placing his hand on my back, he urges me inside.
I take my sneakers off and pound the shoes harshly on the dashboard to loosen the laces.
“Here.” Aksel takes one shoe and unlaces it. With quick even movements, he guides my foot into it and ties the laces. He then does the same with the other.
When he finishes, he pulls the ski socks up over my calves as high as they can go; when his fingers touch my bare calves, a wave of heat passes from him to me.
Kneeling in front of me, with the flashlight propped on the dashboard, shining on his face, I can see how within the green of his eyes are flecks of gold, azure, and cerulean all blending together, pure and calming, like the Ionian Sea at sunrise.
Aksel takes my hands in his, forming a heated cocoon. His fingers are thick and muscular, calloused along the edges. He must rock climb—often. I should have noticed earlier.
“You’re an icicle,” he remarks, massaging my palms to keep the blood flowing.
“You’re a furnace,” I say.
Chuckling, Aksel releases my hands and crawls into the back of the Defender. Rummaging around the gear, he retrieves a rope and tucks it into his backcountry pack; he attaches the snowshoes to the pack and pulls the straps over his shoulders.
As we exit, I look over my shoulder, certain we missed something. Instinctively, I stretch between the seats, grab a solitary avalanche flare, and stuff it into my woolly sock.
Back on the roof, Aksel wraps the rope in a loose ring between his shoulder and hand; it slides smoothly along his palm.
“We’ll go up through the middle,” he tells me. “It’s the easiest route—”
“But that’s only because of the slope,” I interrupt. “We’d have to climb to the top to get out, and you said that top half is all ice. If we take this route”—I point over Aksel’s shoulder—“we’ll reach that ledge sooner. It’s flush with the top of the snowpack; we can traverse to the far side and then climb down, right?”
Aksel makes a smaller loop, runs the end through it, then makes a second loop and attaches it to the first.
He glances between me and Eagle Peak, a hint of a smile on his face. “Right.”
“Though we’ll have to stay—”
“Together,” Aksel finishes.
He lowers the rope to my knees. I look down to see what he’s been tying. A harness. Of course.
Uncertain, I step into it.
His strong hands slide the harness around my waist, tightening the rope. I can feel his broad chest hovering over my back as he checks the knot.
Goose bumps rise up my spine.
“How’s that fit?” His breath tingles the skin on the back of my neck. His hand skims over the knot, checking it. My heart races.
“Good,” I say in a dazed voice. “Where’s your rope?”
“Here.” Aksel points at the tail end of the rope.
“No way,” I say furiously, struggling out of the harness. “You’re not climbing attached to me—”
Aksel pulls the rope taut and knots it so tightly around my waist it nearly cuts off my circulation. “You’re wearing the rope,” he says in a low voice. His hand lingers on my arm, on the skin of my wrist between my shirt and the gloves.
Our breath rises up in a misty vapor