Page 14 of Beastly Mountain Man

I hung my coat in the closet and crossed the great room. The fire Lucky had started the night before had burned down hours ago, but the cabin stayed comfortably warm beneath a sky that had gone from gray to darker gray while we were outside. Wind moved through the pines beyond the windows, bending the highest branches and sending loose needles skittering across the rear deck. The mountain ridge had disappeared completely behind cloud.

No snow yet.

My laptop waited at the dining table exactly where I’d left it, surrounded by my notebook, tablet, charger, and the remains of breakfast. One piece of toast still sat on the plate, hardening beside a smear of egg.

I sat down, woke the screen, and opened the production workspace.

A revised cut had come back while I was outside. The first flagged note concerned a music cue running too loudly beneath a section of dialogue, muddying words that needed to be clear.

Normally, I would have caught it, sent the note to sound, checked the correction, and followed the change through the next review.

This time, I was late to the problem.

The sound lead had already identified it. Another producer had agreed with the adjustment, the revised audio had been dropped into the cut, and the new version was waiting for my sign-off.

I put on my headphones and played the section.

Then I played it again.

The dialogue was clean. The music still carried the scene without competing with it, and nothing around the change had been disturbed.

It was exactly the correction I would have asked for.

I approved the revision and removed my headphones.

For several seconds, I stayed there looking at a problem that had been noticed, solved, checked, and handed back to me without my having to carry it through every step in between.

That should have been reassuring.

Mostly, it was.

Then I leaned back in the chair.

Outside, the wind pushed harder against the windows.

Inside, nothing required rescuing.

I was still deciding how I felt about that when my phone lit with a resort weather update.

The message was reassuringly boring. Temperatures would continue dropping through the afternoon. Snow remained likely before evening, with heavier accumulation overnight. The lodge, utilities, emergency systems, and guest services were operating normally. Upper Ridge guests would receive another notice if restaurant delivery or road access changed.

Exactly the kind of communication I appreciated: useful facts, clear responsibilities, no unnecessary drama.

I set my phone beside the notebook and worked until hunger finally became distracting enough to earn a place on my agenda.

Room service delivered tomato soup, half a turkey sandwich, sliced pear, and a small dish of almonds a little after twelve-thirty. I carried the tray to the dining table because apparently I was incapable of eating a meal more than eighteen inches from a screen when left unsupervised.

The soup was hot and probably excellent.

The sandwich contained turkey, some kind of herb spread, and lettuce that had made an effort.

Those were the only meaningful impressions I retained because I spent most of lunch reviewing a revised location schedule and answering a question about an upcoming shoot day. When I looked down again, the bowl was empty.

I frowned at it.

“That seems unfair to you.”

The soup did not respond to my apology.