Page 165 of The Best Shot

“That’s it? You know?”

“I know,” he said again, quieter.

“Say something else.”

Another pause.

“Three more weeks,” he said. “Until Christchurch. Right?”

“Yeah.” I swallowed. “You remembered?”

“I remember everything you tell me, Yasmine.”

My throat closed.

“I have to go,” he said. “But I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Okay.”

The line went dead.

I sat there holding the phone long after the call ended, listening to nothing at all.

Three weeks later, the C-130 wheels touched down in Christchurch, and I breathed easier for the first time in months.

Green.

There was green here.

Trees. Grass. Things that grew. Colors that weren’t white or gray or ice-lit blue.

I stood outside the airport for ten minutes just breathing. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed air that didn’t hurt.

The hotel was a short shuttle ride away. I’d stayed there on the way in, four months ago, too keyed up to sleep. Now I just wanted a shower, a real bed, and twelve hours of it.

I checked in. Room 412, fourth floor.

The hallway was quiet, the carpet swallowing my footsteps so completely it made me uneasy. In Antarctica, every surface announced you. Metal rang. Ice cracked. Snow crunched. Here, I moved like a ghost.

I reached for my keycard.

A door opened behind me.

One room down.

Footsteps.

“Hey.”

My hand froze on the keycard. My lungs forgot how to work. I knew that voice better than my own heartbeat.

I turned.

Hale.

Here.

The hallway light caught across his face. He didn’t move toward me.