With your good hand, you dig into Arturo’s pocket and find his emergency whistle. He always carried one on hikes. You used to tease him for it.
You put it to your lips and blow.
The sound rips through the valley.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Voices answer from above.
Not Lucía.
Strangers.
A man shouts, “Hello? Is someone down there?”
You blow again until your vision goes black at the edges.
Then a voice you do not know says, “Call rescue! There are people below!”
You let yourself cry then.
Only a little.
Enough to prove you are still alive.
The rescue takes forty-seven minutes.
Later, they tell you that a family heard the whistle from the main trail. A teenage boy climbed close enough to see your red scarf caught in the brush. Park rangers arrived first, then search and rescue, then paramedics.
Lucía and Esteban return to the overlook just as the rescue crew is lowering ropes.
Your daughter screams when she sees you alive.
Not in relief.
In terror.
You are strapped to a rescue board, neck braced, face covered in blood, but your eyes are open when they carry you past her.
You look straight at her.
She goes white.
A sheriff’s deputy notices.
Good.
At the hospital in Charlottesville, you learn your injuries like a list of places your daughter failed to finish killing you.
Two cracked ribs.
Dislocated shoulder.
Concussion.
Deep lacerations.
Sprained ankle.
Arturo is worse.
Internal bleeding.
Broken arm.
Three fractured ribs.
