Chapter Thirty-Two:

Dawn is Coming

Sam opened her eyes blearily, feeling for all the world like she had mud caked over them. She made a muffled, sleepy noise of protest and rubbed a hand over her face. A jolt of terror, cold and sharp, shot through her and she shoved herself upright, heart pounding, ready to run or fight or—

The room was shabby and lit solely by the soft glow of a lamp on a messy wooden desk against the wall. It was about as different from the environment of the last few days as humanly possible. A down comforter, a quilt, and two fleece blankets were piled on top of her, or they had been before she'd sat up and flung them partially off. Even without them, though, the room was only cool, not cold. A worn and slightly dingy rug was spread over a rough wooden floor and thick dark curtains were pulled across the window.

She was safe. True, she wasn't really sure where she was, but this was different. There was nowhere on the mountain that had been like this. Sighing, she fell back onto the stiff mattress. Her dreams, if she'd had any, didn't linger and she stared up at the ceiling. She should get up. There was something she needed to do. She could feel it nagging at her, like a forgotten homework assignment or some chore she hadn't done.

It all felt like a bad dream. If the room had been more familiar, she might have believed it was. Maybe she could even trick herself into thinking that she was about to go hang out with Hannah or rehearse with Mike or go rock-climbing or see Beth or… or…

But it wasn't a dream. None of it.

Her feet hit the rug, and the feel of the fibers under her bare soles was surprisingly comforting. She was wearing a men's flannel that she didn't recognize and a pair of sweatpants that she was swimming in. Easing the door open, she padded out into the hall. The narrow hallway led to a small living room with a television, a VCR, and more books than seemed necessary. Outside it was dark, a faint swirl of snowflakes just barely visible in the porchlight. A light was on in another room and, hearing the soft murmur of voices, she stuck her head in.

"Sam! You're awake!" Jess shoved herself back from the dining room table tucked into the corner of the kitchen and came over to hug her. The girl was clean and seemed rested, despite the shadows still present under her eyes. "I'm so glad," she whispered, holding her tightly.

"Did you think I wasn't going to wake up?" This all seemed surreal.

Jess pulled back to look at her incredulously. "You were asleep for almost two days. Yeah, I was a little worried."

"Seriously?" No wonder her mouth tasted like garbage and her body felt weak and stiff.

"Yeah," Hank said from his seat at the table. He smiled at her. "Want some tea?"

In the only other occupied seat was Matt, his hands cupped around a mug. Like Jess and Hank, he looked clean and was wearing new clothes. They didn't quite seem to fit him right—the sleeves a little too short, the shoulders a little too narrow—but like hers, they were soft and warm. Hank had risen and was filling the kettle with new water and pulling a mug out of a cabinet.

Matt waved at Sam. "I'd come hug you too, but I think Jess has it covered." Indeed, the blonde still had her arms around Sam. "How are you feeling?"

"Confused," she admitted. "Where are we exactly?"

"My house." Hank lit the burner and leaned back against the sink, folding his arms over his chest.

"Not to seem ungrateful, but… how?"

Jess giggled and glanced at Matt, who grinned and gestured for Jess to explain. "You passed out in the helicopter and they put you in a hospital bed. You woke up, realized you were in a hospital, and then ordered us to get you out of there. Do you not remember?"

She really, really didn't. Sam sighed. She must have been incredibly out of it. That wasn't good. There was too much to do and things she needed to get done. Some of what she was thinking must have translated to her face and Hank raised his eyebrows at her. "That's to be expected. You all went through some serious shit."

"But I—"

He held up one hand to silence her, his eyes kind and sad. "Stop. Sam, I know you don't know me, but I can already see…" Hank sighed and ran his hand through is salt-and-pepper hair. "We can talk about it later. For now, just let yourself be warm and safe. It's the best thing you can do."

Sam fought the urge to scoff with moderate success. "Where are the others? They're… they're okay, right?"

"Oh! Oh. Yeah. Yeah, Sam. It's okay." Jess squeezed her arm apologetically. "Sorry. I should have already said. Mike and Em are still in the hospital, but they're okay. Or, well, they'll be okay. Mike—" She swallowed hard. "He lost the arm. But he's going to be okay. He's dealing with it, I think. As much as he can, so soon. And Emily's getting better every day." The blonde released Sam and returned to her seat, a soft smile playing across her lips. "She'll be out of there soon."

"Ash went home," Matt supplied helpfully, jumping in where Jess left off. "Mrs. Washington too."

"Does that mean that—"

He nodded quickly. "They got them off the mountain without any trouble. They're bringing them home."

It hurt more than she'd expected. Bringing them home. That's what she was supposed to do. She was supposed to help Josh and bring him home. Now, that just meant bringing his body back to be buried. It was more than Beth and Hannah had been able to get, she supposed. She realized Matt was still talking and tried to bring her attention back. "—animal attack. So they're not really investigating too much further. I guess they're going to just try to close the mountain off to hikers and stuff."

"What?" Her head snapped around to Hank so fast it made her almost dizzy. "Animals? Seriously?"

Hank just looked at her and after a moment, she felt her indignation fade. "Of course," she murmured, rubbing her head and wincing at how greasy and tangled her hair had become. "What else could you say?"

"Mel wanted—Melinda wanted to talk to you, Sam. When you can. Maybe after you get back to California."

She nodded. Another thought struck her. The word was hard to say, but she forced herself to say it. "Is there going to be a funeral?"

"We're not sure yet. She only just left." The kettle started to rattle warningly and he turned off the stove. "For now, let's just have some tea and get some sleep."

Sam crossed over to the box of teabags on the counter and pulled one free. The scent of dried herbs, of lemongrass and ginger and licorice and other things she couldn't name, drifted up to her. She breathed in deeply and realized abruptly that she was smiling. It wasn't huge. She didn't feel healed—the razor knot of loss was still lodged in her stomach—but she was smiling. Glancing nervously up at Hank, she saw him watching her with a mix of understanding and sadness. At least he wasn't looking at her like the cops had looked at her last time, when she'd smiled to the camera and offered ominous warnings about monsters. Maybe that meant that her smile wasn't a sign of insanity.

At the table, Matt was teasing Jessica about something and she was getting grumpy, her voice rising in pitch as she argued. Hank poured steaming water into the empty mug and passed it to Sam, who dropped in the teabag. "Look, Sam. We've really only just met. But I want to say… I've known people like you before. You're a strong person, right? You took care of people when they needed you and now that things are done, you don't know what to do with yourself." She started to protest but he held up hand and she quieted, blowing on her tea just to be doing something.

"You can't save everyone, Sam. That's the hard truth of life. Sometimes you fail. Sometimes it has nothing to do with you at all. I watched you down there. I don't know that anyone else could have done what you did. I know I couldn't. I don't think Mel could have, and she's his mother. I know it doesn't feel like it now, but you did the best you could. Sometimes it just isn't enough. And I'm sorry that you had to go through that."

She couldn't look at him. If she did, the tears building in her eyes would fall and then she would break down completely. The mug was too hot to hold, but she kept it in her hands all the same, letting the burn of it make her hands ache.

"There's no more to do now. Just rest. Let yourself recover, at least physically. The rest will come." He huffed out a rueful little chuckle. "Listen to me. I've become the old guy yammering advice at a young person. God. I told myself I'd never get to this point, but here we are all the same. Drink your tea. Take a shower if you want. Then get some more sleep. Everything else can wait."

-o-

He stared at her, his hand clenched around his pen. "I'm sorry, what? "

Melinda's mouth tightened into a thin line and she repeated herself slowly. "I want a divorce. Or at the very least, a separation." It was odd—she always had imagined that she would be nervous in this moment, but all she felt was a kind of calm certainty. Bob looked like something out of a movie: a caricature of a producer or other bigwig, with the nib of his fountain pen hovering just above a stack of papers and a glass of scotch in the other hand. Perhaps this wasn't the best time to do this, but she didn't want to wait anymore.

She should have done this a long time ago. It was easy to imagine what might have been. If she hadn't been so desperate to keep her marriage together or so terrified of what she might have passed on to her children, she might have seen Josh spiraling. Maybe she would be having lunch with her son right now instead of making quiet arrangements for his cremation.

That scotch was looking rather tempting at the moment.

"Are you really doing this now, Melly? Now?" His jaw tightened and she saw a flash of pain in his eyes. "We're about to…" He couldn't even say it. Instead he downed the rest of his drink and stood, striding over to the bar to pour himself another. "You're not thinking straight."

The handle of her cane was smooth and she ran her thumb over it, letting it grow warm from her skin and then letting go. "I'm thinking straight for the first time in a year. We're not happy. We haven't been happy for a very long time. I think it's time we were honest about that."

"Why now?" His voice was a broken whisper and she saw his shoulders slump.

Melinda sighed. Bob Washington wasn't a perfect person. No one was. The problem, though, was that Bob had worked so hard to convince the world he was perfect that, for a time, he'd convinced her too. The glamour of his life had been undeniable: mingling with movie stars, travel, parties, money… And he'd given her the children as well. Her surprise of a son, who took after her in more ways than she'd ever wanted, and her two brilliant, passionate girls. He'd even loved them, in his own way. It was just that Bob should never have been a father. Perhaps he shouldn't have even been a husband.

She felt a sweeping wave of sympathy wash over her. Hindsight was twenty-twenty. Everyone had things they would change if they could. Standing slowly, using her cane to keep from putting undue pressure on her injured leg, Melinda crossed to the bar and leaned on it. "I'm sorry, Bob," she said gently, resting her hand on his. His fingers intertwined with hers and squeezed tightly, clutching her like she was his last lifeline. She supposed that, in a way, she was: a last tie to their old life, to the memories of playing baseball in the long, golden evenings of summer at the lodge and their children laughing.

After several long minutes of silence, he nodded, gazing down into his glass. "I know. I am too."

-o-

The ache in his arm is persistent. Of course, the worst part is knowing that it really wasn't persistent at all. It wasn't even there. It was in his head, the doctors had patiently explained. Remembered pain. He kept expecting to look down and see his arm there, even missing those fingers. He would go to scratch his ear or grab a cup or do nearly anything and then it would hit him all over again.

Mike slumped back in the seat, looking dully out the bus window to the trees. He was being a coward, checking out of the hospital and rushing back before anyone could arrange to travel with him

He was lucky that Emily had understood. It made sense somehow, that she would. They might have been ill-matched as a couple, but they both knew what it was to be strong and in command. She still hadn't forgiven him for the incident with the gun and if he was honest with himself, he didn't know that he even wanted her to let it go. It was one of the most shameful moments of his life, right up there with letting Hannah unbutton her shirt and not being able to—

A long sip of lukewarm orange juice quelled that line of thought.

Forgiven or not, though, Emily had understood when he said he didn't want pity from the others. A few days, he'd said. All I need is a few days away from them to figure out what I'm going to do next. That way when I see them, I'll have something I can say. She'd bought him a ticket on the spot.

So now he was on a smelly, rattling bus on the second leg of the journey home. The doctors had been adamant about traveling after the amputation. No flights. Apparently, there was risk of him developing some issue or other from the pressure changes inevitable with a plane ride. He rolled the pill bottle of painkillers between the fingers on his remaining hand and closed his eyes. To figure out what I'm going to do next.

Mike snorted to himself and tightened his hold on the pill bottle. As if he had even the slightest clue what that could possibly be.

-o-

It was only after Emily was released to go home that Jess agreed to leave. Sam felt guilty as they continued to camp out in Hank's house, though he insisted that it was no inconvenience. More than once, she wondered about Hank's life and his ties to the Washingtons. The better she knew him, the more it seemed that he was like her: drawn into the gravitational pull of the family until he was so involved that he couldn't leave.

She hadn't hugged him goodbye the way that Matt and Jess had, but she shook his hand firmly and hoped he understood. From the look in his eyes, he did. It was strange to think that they were leaving and that she might never be here again.

No dreams of any kind had come since the helicopter ride and Sam couldn't decide whether she was happy or disappointed. No dreams meant no nightmares, but it also meant that there were no visions, no sense of what might be in her future. She reminded herself for the thousandth time that most people didn't get visions and that she knew how to be a normal person without them. It just didn't feel like it. Every move she made, every word she said felt oddly flat, as if she'd stepped into another world.

Mike had left without saying goodbye. As with so many other things lately, Sam didn't really know what to make of that. She missed him. She missed talking to him and being able to always have him there when she needed someone. She missed the little half-smile, half-smirk he did when he was trying to be witty and she missed the terrible jokes that he always seemed to pull out of nowhere. Emily would only tell Sam that he'd gone ahead because the timing sucked. He'd have to take road transportation, which would make his trip far longer than theirs.

She would have gone with him if he'd asked or even given her the chance to offer. But like Melinda and Ashley leaving, it was already done. There was nothing to do now but to go back with the others.

Despite what Hank had said, she still couldn't shake the thought that she was forgetting something. A small, secret truth was lodged in the hollow of her throat and she could feel it with every breath. It was something she could never admit to the others. She could already imagine their faces and objections.

But the truth was that she wanted to go back again—back to the mountain, to the lodge, to the mine and the sanatorium.

Early one morning before Emily was released, Matt had confirmed what Sam remembered: Beth and Hannah had been there in the end. It helped to know that she wasn't going mad completely, but it also meant that there was a chance they were still there. Sam remembered seeing three Washington faces looking up at her as they left in the helicopter, but that part no one could support. Maybe now that it was over, they were gone.

What could possibly still be keeping them there?

There was no answer to that question, so Sam kept her mouth shut and simply endured the pain of speculation. They'd received word that Chris's mom was planning a funeral and she knew she needed to be there. Everything else would have to wait. She thought of Ashley, of Chris's lonely mother, of whatever unfinished business she still had with Melinda, swallowed hard, and boarded the plane.