Whiteout
The SUV disappeared down the tree-lined road, swallowed by snow and silence.
Emma didn't wave. She just watched until the taillights faded, one hand resting on the gate as the wind tugged at her sleeves and set the tree branches swaying above.
They were gone.
She should've turned back inside. Should've gone straight to her checklist, like always.
Instead, she stood there a moment longer, squinting at the sky.
It didn't look right.
The clouds were thickening too fast, pushing low across the ridgeline with a kind of weight that made her shoulders tense. The wind had teeth now. Dry and biting. And the air had shifted. Gone heavy. Static.
Emma narrowed her eyes. She'd lived here for five years. Long enough to read the signs. Long enough to know this storm wasn't the kind that passed quietly in the night.
This one would tear at the windows and bury the road in hours, rather than days.
She turned on her heel and got to work.
The dogs were already stirring. Pacing. Whining low in their throats. Even Happy, the most unshakeable of the bunch, kept glancing toward the trees like he knew something was coming.
Emma moved faster now. She filled the troughs with food—double rations—then swapped out frozen water bowls for the insulated ones she'd stored in the shed. She triple-checked every latch, every gate, every thermal flap. The kennels were strong, insulated, built to endure storms like this—but she still laid down extra straw bedding. Covered the vents just enough. Added blankets where she could.
Her breath clouded around her face and her hands had gotten stiff inside her gloves, but she didn't stop.
There was a rhythm to it. A ritual. Keep the dogs safe. Keep the fire burning. Keep moving.
As she clipped the last latch, her mind flicked uninvited to the way Henry had crouched beside Red, hands buried deep in her fur like he didn't want to let go. Or the curve of Regina's smile, soft and unguarded, when the smallest puppy had tried to crawl into her lap.
Emma shook her head, hard.
She'd had hundreds of clients. Corporate groups. Adventure couples. Grumpy influencers. Once, a TV anchor with two assistants and a silk parka.
They came. They left. She never remembered their names.
But this…Regina. Henry. Something about them lingered. Too long.
She muttered a curse under her breath and hauled the last sack of kindling up to the house. The sky was even darker now—not with dusk, but with storm. Swallowed light. Sinking air.
She made her way to the shes and split logs until her muscles ached. Then she stacked them in armloads against the wall of the house. One for the stoves inside. One for backup. One just in case.
By the time she stepped into her house, her boots were soggy and damp strands of hair clung to her cheeks. She stripped off the wet layers of clothing in the mudroom—not one drop of snow passed the threshold. The house was sacred. No wet and smelly dogs. No trail gear. No mess. This was her sanctuary.
Inside, the heat hit her like a wall.
She fed the fire in the living room again. Wiped down the counters. Checked the emergency radio. Filled the kettle. Her hands moved automatically, but her thoughts didn't settle. Not on the checklist. Not on the storm.
It settled on a laugh. A voice. A faint echo of a smile.
Damn it.
She ran a hand through her still damp hair and exhaled. She stood in the kitchen and stared out the window.
The snow had begun falling sideways.
The first white fingers of the blizzard clawed down the ridge, swallowing the trees in waves. The road beyond was gone—buried. There'd be no safe travel once it hit full force. The wind was howling now. Deep. Low. Wrong.
Emma turned away from the window.
The snow came faster than expected.
It blurred across the windshield in fast, sideways streaks, the wipers working harder now, struggling to keep up. But inside the SUV, it was warm. Contained. The kind of silence that followed burnt out arguments—not quite peace, but the eye of a storm.
Regina adjusted her grip on the wheel. The road ahead had narrowed under the snow, the edges barely distinguishable now—only the occasional guardrail or snow-drifted barrier gave a sense of where the path ended and the drop began. She flicked a glance sideways.
Henry sat curled into his sweater, earbuds around his neck but unused. He hadn't spoken since they left the lodge. Neither had she.
But then his voice broke the silence.
"That was kind of cool," he muttered.
Regina blinked, caught off guard. "What was?"
"The dogs," he said. "The sled." A pause. "Emma."
Her hands stayed steady on the wheel, but her breath caught—just slightly. "She was kind."
"She didn't talk down to me," Henry said. "She's kinda cool."
Regina didn't answer. The quiet between them softened.
"Do you think…we could go again?" he asked. "Before we leave in two weeks."
Regina's eyes stayed on the road. "Maybe."
He nodded like he didn't expect her to mean it—but the silence after was different. Warmer. Like something in him had stopped bracing.
"…Thanks," he said after a moment, like it had been dragged out of him. "For today. I guess."
Regina looked at him. Just for a second. Then back to the road.
"You're welcome," she said softly.
Another beat.
Then—more guarded, more Henry—"You know, if you really feel like replacing Dad one day…"
Regina's knuckles tensed on the steering wheel. "Henry—"
"I just mean," he went on, ignoring her warning tone, "maybe aim for someone who's not a complete idiot next time. Like—if it has to be anyone, at least make it someone cool. Someone like Emma."
That made her blink.
Henry was staring out the window, tone maddeningly casual. "Robin had the personality of a soggy napkin. Leopold was fine, until he tried to make me call him 'sir' at dinner. And then there's Emma. Who can command dogs with one word and make an actually campfire. And she's fun. Just saying."
Regina stared at the road like it might save her.
"She's a woman," she said carefully. "Not a—"
"Yeah, yeah, not an option. I get it." He waved it off. "But still. Points for not sucking."
And then he slouched deeper, pulled the hood of his sweater up, and tugged it over his face.
Regina bit the inside of her cheek—unsure whether to laugh, groan, or pull the car over and scream.
Instead, she let her mind drift. Just a little.
To Emma.
To the way she'd moved through snow like it was a second home. To the quiet steadiness in her voice. The way she'd said princess like it meant something more than a simple teasing.
The road narrowed again, shadowed now by dense trees. Regina slowed.
The wind had picked up even more—sharper, heavier. And the snowfall had thickened into a white curtain. Visibility was down to a few dozen feet. But she'd grown up in New York. She'd driven through late-night blizzards with worse odds. She could handle a bit of snow.
Still, something prickled at her neck. Something wrong.
And that's when it happened. A low groan echoed from the ridge ahead—like the mountain exhaled.
Regina's eyes snapped to the slope on her left just in time to see the first wave break free. A rolling wall of white thundered downward, massive and fast.
"Henry," she breathed. "Hold on."
He looked up. "What—"
"Hold on!"
She slammed the brakes. The car swerved. Snow burst across the road in a crashing sheet—not at them directly, but close enough to blind the world.
She tried to steer left—the only opening she saw—but the tires lost traction.
The SUV skidded.
Henry screamed.
Regina gritted her teeth, yanked the wheel the other way—but the ground fell away beneath them.
The car slammed into something solid. A tree, maybe. The jolt cracked glass, threw her forward into the belt. The windows burst around them. Snow poured in like water through a dam.
She felt a sharp impact at her temple. The cold rushed in.
And then nothing.
Only white.
Before blackness swallowed her.
The wind had started howling about half an hour ago.
Emma stood in the kitchen, a mug of fresh coffee in her hand, and staring out the small window above the sink again. The trees outside were nearly invisible now—just dark smudges in a blinding wall of white. She'd already checked and double-checked the kennels, hauled in firewood, locked down the cabin's shutters, and filled every pot and thermos she owned with clean water.
Her boots sat by the door in the mudroom, dripping melted snow onto the floor.
She was ready for the storm.
But something didn't sit right.
She felt it nagging at the back of her mind—a pressure that hadn't been there before. Not the usual pre-storm tension. Something worse. Like she'd missed something.
Her phone rang.
She answered on the second ring, pressing the phone between her shoulder and cheek as she crossed to the fire to stoke it.
"Emma Swan."
"Emma, it's Nate, over in town." The voice on the other end was breathless, static-lined. "Just a heads up—we got a call a few minutes ago. Avalanche came down across Highway Six, around mile sixty-seven. Road's completely buried."
Emma froze, the fire iron still in her hand. "Anyone caught in it?"
"Don't know. We can't get close enough yet. No confirmation. No one from this side, but we had a few cars headed out before the storm hit. You have any clients leave late this afternoon?"
Emma's stomach dropped.
Her voice was quiet. "Yeah. A mother and son. Black SUV. They left about an hour ago."
"Shit." A pause. "Listen, with the snow coming in like this, you're gonna be cut off until it lets up. Days, maybe. We're already getting hit hard this side."
Emma turned and looked toward the front door. The blizzard was a living thing now—roaring, whirling, alive with fury.
"What mile marker did you say?"
"Sixty-seven."
Emma closed her eyes for a beat. Did the math.
With the storm slowing them down…that would've put Regina and Henry right there. Right in it.
"I'm going out," she said, voice steel.
"Emma, it's not safe…"
"I have chains on the truck, I know the route, and if they're out there, they don't have time to wait for safe. It could be days, you said it yourself."
A beat of silence.
Then, reluctantly: "Call me when you get there."
Emma ended the call and moved into motion.
Within five minutes, she was in her gear—thick thermals, snow bibs, insulated coat, layers of wool, the works. Her snow boots were double-laced. Gloves shoved into her belt. Beanie pulled low.
She crossed to the kennel, the wind howling against the door as she opened it. Red was already pacing inside, sensing the shift. Emma knelt and clipped on her harness.
"Come on, girl," she murmured. "We've got work."
The dog barked once, sharp and ready.
Emma slammed the Tacoma's door behind her. It started on the first turn—a deep, comforting growl. She threw it into gear, the headlights cutting weak tunnels through the swirling white.
Snow chains clanked as she moved. A plow blade was mounted to the front grille. The truck groaned under the conditions, but it moved. Steady. Heavy. Reliable.
The first ten miles were the worst—the road already drifting over, the trees blurring into the white. Emma gripped the wheel like a lifeline—jaw tight, clenched.
Red whined once in the passenger seat.
"I know," Emma murmured. "I feel it too."
She tried to breathe. To think. To stay calm.
Panic didn't help anyone. She knew that. She'd trained for worse. Had driven through backcountry storms with sick tourists in the backseat and broken trails.
But this wasn't just anyone.
Regina's voice echoed in her head. Henry's laugh as he knelt in the snow, buried under puppies.
The memory gutted her. Not them.
The clock ticked slowly toward the fifty-minute mark as she reached the final curve before the sixty-seven mile marker. The snow was thick here—knee-high in places. And ahead, just where the trees thinned…the road ended in a wall of white. A massive drift, dense and jagged, where the avalanche had buried the road completely.
Emma brought the Tacoma to a crawl.
The guardrail on her right was gone.
Snow drifts banked hard to the right, piled unnaturally high—avalanche debris. Compressed. Dense. A wall of white where the road had once curved gently along the hillside.
Emma pulled to the shoulder, threw the truck into park, and grabbed her harness from the back.
Red jumped out the second the door opened.
"Easy," Emma called over the wind. "We'll go together."
She scanned the area, saw nothing—until Red bolted forward, barking once, sharp and urgent. She disappeared over the edge of the slope.
"Red!" Emma shouted, already strapping into the harness.
She grabbed the ice spikes, clipped into the winch line, and tossed it over the slope's edge.
Then she went after her.
The cold snow bit at her skin as she made her way downwards, boots kicking up small avalanches with every step. The slope was slick and steep, but she knew how to use her body weight and how to stay in control.
And then—a shape appeared.
A vehicle.
Half-buried. Metal and glass. Snow-crusted. Some of the windows were completely gone. The rest fractured, like a spiderweb under pressure.
A black SUV.
Emma's heart slammed in her chest.
And then—faint, but real—she heard it.
"Help!"
A voice. Young. Panicked.
"Somebody help us!"
Emma's boots crunched hard as she half-sprinted, half-slid toward the buried SUV. Red darted ahead, barking at the driver's side, tail low and stiff, her breath coming fast.
"Henry!" Emma shouted, struggling to reach the passenger side. "I'm here—can you hear me?"
Another shout. Garbled. Closer now. Inside the SUV.
Emma yanked at the back door—it groaned but was stuck, snow packed into every gap. She rammed her shoulder into it, once, twice—until finally, with a loud crack of ice, it gave way.
The door swung open, more snow pouring in like water. The cold was a knife to the face.
Inside, Emma found chaos.
Glass crunched under her boots. The windshield had split, spiderwebbed with cracks. Snow filled the inside, windows burst inward. Henry was twisted in his seatbelt, arms flailing, wide-eyed and gasping. The car was still running, the heating on the highest setting
"I can't…I can't get out!" he screamed, voice was high and frantic. "She's bleeding, and—" His hands scrabbled at the buckle. "It's stuck—it won't—"
Emma was already pulling the knife from her belt.
"Here." She shoved it into his hand, her own voice calm but fierce. "Cut it. Now. Go slow. You're going to be okay."
Henry's fingers shook, blue and stiff, but he nodded and sawed the blade across the strap.
It gave way with a sharp snap.
Emma reached past him, the second belt already in her hands. She had to brace herself awkwardly between the seats to get to Regina. The woman was slumped at the wheel, barely upright, blood trailing from a gash at her temple and a split lip already swelling. Her skin was too pale. Lips almost blue.
"Regina," Emma said sharply, pressing two fingers to her throat. A pulse. Faint, but steady. Her breath came in shallow gasps.
"Regina. Hey. Can you hear me?"
A flutter of lashes. A weak inhale.
"You came," Regina murmured—barely audible over the wind.
Emma leaned in, her gloved hand brushing her cheek. "Of course I did, princess."
No response. But a ghost of something flickered over Regina's face. A twitch of a smile, even as her eyes drifted closed again.
Emma swallowed hard. "Okay. I've got you. Both of you."
She turned to Henry, who was already fumbling to get out of the car. "Out. Now. We've got to move. It's too cold. We've got minutes, not hours."
Henry climbed out into the snow, staggering slightly as his boots sank deep. His legs nearly gave under him, but he caught himself. He was crying, tears freezing on his cheeks.
Emma hauled Henry first, guiding him up the incline with the winch line and a steel grip on his arm. Red kept pace, growling low at the storm. The boy stumbled twice, sobbed once, but didn't stop. Emma shoved him up onto the road, then turned back down.
Her legs burned. Her arms were already numb.
She slid most of the way down again, digging her boots in at the slope's edge. Emma circled quickly to Regina's side, unbuckled what was left of her strap, and pulled her free.
She was deadweight. Her lashes were crusted with frost. Blood had frozen at her temple.
Not fully unconscious—but not fully conscious either.
Emma crouched low, one arm under Regina's knees, the other behind her back. "Alright," she muttered, breath fogging. "Let's get you out of here."
Emma gritted her teeth and lifted Regina.
Every step up the incline was a battle. Her boots slipped. The weight pulled at her shoulders. Wind slammed into her like a wave. She leaned into it. Pushed.
Halfway up, Regina stirred faintly—her head rolling against Emma's shoulder.
"Shh," Emma whispered, tightening her grip. "Almost there."
She reached the top just as her legs nearly gave out, dragging Regina's body the last few feet onto flat ground.
Henry ran toward them, blanket in hand. Emma yanked it open and wrapped it around Regina's shivering frame.
"Truck," she barked. "Now."
They piled into the Tacoma in a flurry of limbs and snow. Emma got Regina laid across the back seat, head in Henry's lap. Red leapt up and curled protectively against her side.
Emma threw the truck into gear and spun the wheel hard.
Snow roared against the windshield. Visibility was shit.
She cranked the heat.
Henry looked at her, wide-eyed, his hand buried in Regina's damp hair. "She's really cold," he whispered. "Her skin—Emma, her skin's freezing."
"She's hypothermic," Emma said. "We keep her warm, keep her still, she'll recover."
"Promise?"
"I'm not letting anything happen to her," Emma said, her voice low and firm. "Neither to you."
Henry nodded once, shakily.
Emma passed him a small pack from the center console. "There's gauze and wipes in the emergency kit. You're going to clean that gash on her head. Slow. Gentle. Start at the outside, work your way in."
Henry sniffled. "I can't—"
"Yes, you can. You're brave and strong, Henry. You've got this."
He nodded, already tearing open the package with trembling fingers.
The heater hissed. The storm raged. But the truck kept moving—slow and steady, wheels digging through the snow.
Emma's hands clenched on the wheel.
Her heart wouldn't slow down.
Regina's face in the mirror—too white, lips too blue. Henry, bent over her, murmuring her name like a prayer.
And Emma drove.
Driven by instinct. By fury. And by fear she refused to name.