Page 2 of No Hope of Rescue

I start to automatically tick off a list: “Sandwich, two apples, camel full?” She nods and I go on. “Second pair of dry gloves and another hat, waterproof matches, hand warmers, almonds, thermal wrap, knife, flashlight?”

Her annoyance looks genuine for the first time as she turns and shoves a small flashlight into the pack. “We’re not going to be out after dark.”

“Pills?”

This one is tricky. She started having seizures at fifteen, and though rare, she must have her script with her. She takes sertraline and has learned CBT—cognitive behavioral therapy—and the combo has left her seizure free for nine months. Though she hates her non-epileptic attack disorder and hates it even more that she can’t drive. She has to be cleared for a full year first.

“We aren’t camping,” she replies. “So, no. I didn’t bring them.”

I retrieve my keys from my pocket and hold them up. Attached to the key fob is a small inconspicuous silver pill container with a screw top.

“Are you kidding me?” she says. “We’ll be back in four hours!”

“There’s two in there. Two days.”

“How old are those?”

“Nice try. They don’t go bad.”

She sighs.

“Hey, it’s my job. I can’t help myself. You have a big brother for a reason.”

“I have four, though.”

I need to her toss a bone. “How about you drive?”

“Really?” Instant grin.

“Sounds good to me.”

“Me too.” She puts her arms through the loops and tightens the waist band on her pack.

“I think we’re good to go. You told Mom you were up here, right?”

Our mother, Kelly Weston, learned years ago she would never survive if she didn’t suppress her worrywart gene passed on from her own mother. Raising five kids in the Colorado Rockies is not for the fainthearted. She left the worrying to our father, Jess, a sweet guy who did enough for all three of them: our mother, father, and grandma.

No, “sweet” isn’t the right word. He was kind. A kind man who loved us and loved our mother. Mom always said he was the love of her life. She still wears the engagement ring he gave her. Even though he died nearly two decades ago, she still wears his wedding band on a thin, gold chain around her neck.

“Yes. I mean, I texted her.”

I pause. “You texted her?”

There are so many places where texts don’t go through. Which reminds me . . .

I hand her my pocket GPS tracker.

She stares for a moment before taking it. “We’re not hiking separately.”

“I only have one. You’re the youngest, so you get it.”

She opens her mouth to resist, but my next words, a quote from our father, stops her.

“Them’s the rules.”

“Oh, fine.” She starts to shove it into a back pocket.

Shaking my head, I point to my right front pocket.