Page 80 of Run Wild Omega

Daniel slides a printed page across the table toward me. I pick it up, scanning the neat block text.

The statement is written in the third person, referring to me as “the guide” rather than by name—a choice I recognize as deliberate, depersonalizing the narrative. It describes the avalanche assessment that was conducted the morning of the incident, the cornice formation that was documented in the weekly SAR hazard report, and the specific meteorological conditions that caused the unexpected release. It quotes the sheriff’s confidence in “the guide’s compliance with all established safety protocols” and closes with a line about the ongoing recovery and the town’s support for “one of our own.”

It’s clean. It’s professional. And it’s completely impersonal, which is exactly the point.

“This is good,” I say, surprised.

“Reddick wrote most of it. I edited.” Daniel leans back. “He’s been surprisingly cooperative. I think he feels guilty—the out-of-state packs have been contacting his office, and he doesn’t like it any more than we do. Putting his name on this statement is his way of pushing back.”

“When do I need to sign it?”

“Tonight, if possible. I’ll messenger it back to his office in the morning.”

I set the paper down and look around the room—at the command center, the pills, the ramp, the convoy of trucks parked outside my parents’ house. The scale of the operation hits me all at once. My family, my brother’s pack, the three men who are pretending to be mine—all of them mobilized, coordinating, strategizing, spending hours and money and energy on damage control for something I caused.

The guilt is immediate and physical, a weighted blanket settling over my chest.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

No one responds right away.

“I’m sorry for all of this,” I continue, my voice rough. “The press conference, the statement, the lawyers, the packs—none of this would be happening if I hadn’t gone up that ridge. You’ve all been running around for days trying to fix something I broke, and I⁠—”

“Tess.” Wyatt’s voice is firm but not unkind. He’s standing in the archway, arms crossed, still wearing the same bloodstained uniform he hasn’t changed out of since the mountain. “Stop.”

“I’m serious. Leo’s company is being sued because of me. Daniel’s been tied up in legal strategy instead of being with Mara. My parents had to drive through a blizzard. You three haven’t slept. And for what? Because I decided to put my life in danger and risk all of yours, too?”

“You didn’t decide anything,” Dylan says from the kitchen doorway, a glass of water in his hand. “The conditions were within acceptable parameters. The cornice was unpredictable. You made the right call based on the data available.”

“The data was wrong.”

“The data was incomplete. There’s a difference. And that difference is called weather, not negligence.”

Miles is sitting in the armchair, his tablet on his knee. He doesn’t look up when he speaks. “You’re apologizing for something that isn’t your fault because it’s easier than being angry at the actual cause. The cause is a wind-loaded cornice on a north-facing slope in record-breaking storm conditions. The cause is a media ecosystem that profits from Omega vulnerability. The cause is a legal system that allows predatory packs to treat human beings as acquisitions. You are responsible for none of those things.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he’s already moved on, his eyes back on his tablet, dismissing the conversation with an efficiency that would be insulting if it weren’t so grounding.

Daniel gathers the papers on the table. “He’s right. And even if he weren’t, apologizing is a waste of energy you need for healing. Sign the statement, eat something, and rest. That’s your only job right now.”

I sign the statement. Daniel tucks it into a folder and sets it by the door for the morning messenger.

Mom brings me soup—homemade chicken noodle, still steaming. I eat it on the couch with my leg propped on three pillows, the cast a heavy, immovable weight that anchors me to the cushions. The soup is good. It tastes like childhood, like snow days and flu season and Mom standing at the stove in her apron.

After I eat, the exhaustion hits. The pain medication is kicking in, turning everything soft and fuzzy.

Wyatt notices. He’s been hovering near the couch since I sat down, close enough to reach me if I need something but not so close that it feels intrusive. He has a knack for reading the geometry of a room—knowing exactly where to stand so that his presence is felt without being imposed.

“You need to sleep,” he says.

“I need to not be in this cast,” I mutter, but my eyes are already closing.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll pick you up in the morning. We need to go to the hospital for the follow-up imaging—they want to check the rod alignment now that the swelling has gone down. And before that, the three of us are going to come by early.”

I force one eye open. “Why?”

He hesitates. It’s a small thing, a fraction of a second, but I catch it.

“To scent you,” he says.