The night I was found, a truck driver named William Roberts slowed his truck to a stop and hit the floodlight mounted on the roof of his truck. It was a cold and snowy night. He was seventeen miles from the main road but stopped because something weird caught his eye. He grabbed a pistol from his glove compartment and stepped out of his truck, walking slowly over to my nearly lifeless body. He said he didn’t know if maybe he might have to shoot an animal if it were suffering. Or he thought it might be some kind of strange trick. He looked around, wondering if maybe someone was hiding in the brush.
He knelt down next to me and put his hand over my mouth. Faint, warm air moistened his fingers. Whoever she is, she’s still alive, he thought. And then he picked up my body and carried me to his truck. He laid me down in the front seat, releasing the back of the passenger seat so it lay relatively flat. He turned his truck around and drove back toward town.
He told the press that I never woke the whole time we drove. He took me past town, which was seventy-five miles from where he found me, and then straight to the hospital that was fifty miles farther south. If he hadn’t done it, I’d be dead right now. But he did it. And when they got me into the hospital, they pumped me full of drugs and warm water, slowly bringing my body temperature back up.
Mr. Roberts waited to see if I would live. He sat in the hospital waiting room until a doctor returned to confirm that I was going to survive. He got in his truck and drove back home. Later that week, reporters tracked him down and asked why he didn’t wait for the reward. My mother had offered a small reward to anyone stupid enough to travel up into the mountains to find me during the storm, and there’d been no takers. He said he was just doing what anybody else would have done. It doesn’t amaze me anymore after what Paul and I did for each other, but it is still heartening to know that the world is filled with good souls.
The deep cold made it difficult for the doctors to determine the time of Paul’s death with any accuracy. The coroner’s report said he died a day or two after I left him on the mountain. I believe I know the exact timing of his death, but that is a secret I intend to keep to myself.
A few months after I left the hospital, I received a small package posted from Cambridge, Mass. It was wrapped in brown paper, and the return address was marked in large block letters: FROM WILL HART SR. I felt the hairs rise on my neck. I picked up the package and carefully unsealed the edges and slid the box out of the paper. I wanted to preserve the package-to save anything with a connection to Paul.
I opened the box. Inside, wrapped in a monogrammed handkerchief, was Will’s book. A note card was tucked inside, intentionally placed sideways with its edge sticking out, so as not to be missed.
I removed the note.
Dear Jane,
I’ve wanted to write to you for some time now. Thank you for sending his short, sweet note. It means the world to me. Also, I’ve had time to digest your account of your amazing story. I know my son and everything you say rings true. He was always a brave boy. As you may know, they found a book in his hand. I opened the book and realized the only thing written in it was addressed to you. I read it; I’m sure you will forgive me such a trespass. Because of its nature, and his obvious desire for you to read it, I’m returning this book to you.
Yours,
Will Hart, Sr.
I opened the box and carefully unwrapped the handkerchief, fingering the PH monogrammed in the bottom-right-hand corner of the cloth. I flipped open the cover and my fingertips traced Will’s name, carved into the leather. And then I turned over the first pages, and there on the very next page was a note scrawled in block letters, clearly written by a frozen hand.
Jane,
I’m so cold and tired and hungry. I can’t think. I’m so sorry. You’ll survive. Everything. Pills, razors, heartbreak, me, your dad, your mom, doctors, bad thoughts, this dumb fucking mountain. Don’t quit. Fight, crawl, scratch, scream, punch. Just hold on, keep breathing through it all. Walk off this mountain. Live for us. You’re strong and awesome and amazing and a million other words I can’t think of right now.
I love you.
P
I read Paul’s letter again, and even now, after dozens of times, a big fat tear wells and hovers in my eye. Then it rolls down my cheek and falls on the page, splashing the dry paper, sealing our emotions together forever.
I open my window and look up at the stars. There are millions out there shining away. I know they are not lost souls or anything like that. In the physical world, they are merely suns like our own: burning balls of fire that heat the universe. But I believe Paul is out there somewhere.
If Old Doctor asked me to explain how I survived up there, I would simply say, “With love and luck.” Where is our love now? On the pages of this book, in the crevices of my brain, in a bright star a couple billion miles away. And when I die-which I hope won’t be for a long time-that love will remain.
I close my eyes and look into the night at one of dozens of twinkling stars. I feel Paul with me, saying my name, whispering and laughing. I grip the book and lay it across my chest. I hear the trees dancing in the wind and the sound of insects calling. And we are here, Paul and me-separated but connected, brokenhearted but grateful.
I open my window to the night and let my left arm hang over the sill. A cool stream of air wafts by, and my fingertips tingle as the night breeze flows over and through them. I smile, knowing how lucky I am to be alive.