Arlo studied the map tacked to the community board, his finger hovering over the cabin marked farthest from the lodge. The isolated spot would give him privacy to spiral without an audience. But his hands shook as he traced the distance back to civilization, calculating how many minutes it would take help to arrive if something went wrong. He claimed the cabin anyway. Inside, he found the flare mounted by the door, its metallic surface catching the weak arctic light. The bright warning system was supposed to be reassuring. Instead, Arlo stared at it and felt his throat tighten. The flare meant someone had already considered the possibility of disaster out here. He touched the cold metal, then pulled his hand back. His choice was made. He'd prove he could handle the distance, or he'd burn a bright magenta streak across the sky admitting he couldn't.

The emergency radio crackled at three in the morning. Arlo jerked awake, heart already hammering before his brain caught up. A woman's voice cut through the static, requesting immediate assistance. Someone hadn't returned from a supply run. Last known position: somewhere between the weather tower and the northern cabins. Arlo's hands shook as he pulled on his boots. He was the closest person to the search area. The realization hit like ice water: they were counting on him. He grabbed a flashlight and stepped into the darkness, telling himself this was just like following footnotes in a thesis, one careful step after another. Twenty minutes later, he found the missing contestant's pack beside a collapsed section of snow. The sinkhole's edges crumbled under his probing stick, revealing black ice below. He planted his feet wide, anchored a rope to a nearby rock, and lowered himself into the void. The woman was conscious, her leg trapped between ice sheets. Arlo talked her through each movement as he worked the ice free, his voice steady even as his whole body trembled. When they finally climbed out together, she gripped his shoulder hard enough to bruise. The terror didn't leave him, but neither did the knowledge that he'd done it anyway.

Arlo couldn't sleep after the rescue. His body was exhausted, but his mind kept replaying the moment he'd seen the woman's leg wedged between the ice sheets. He pulled on his coat as dawn broke and walked back to the sinkhole. The morning light made everything look different—clearer, sharper. He circled the collapsed area, studying the way the snow had given way. Something bothered him about the edges. They were too clean, too uniform. Natural sinkholes formed gradually, with uneven stress patterns. This looked deliberate. He followed a set of boot prints leading away from the hole, tracks partially filled with fresh snow. They led him to a stone bunker he'd walked past a dozen times without noticing, its entrance camouflaged by packed snow drifts. Inside, he found a workbench covered in ice-cutting tools and a diagram showing stress points in the snow crust. His hands started shaking again, but not from fear this time. Someone had built this trap. Someone had known exactly where people walked between the weather tower and the northern cabins. He photographed everything with trembling fingers, then backed out of the bunker. Proving his courage meant more than rappelling into sinkholes now. It meant showing everyone what was really happening here, even if it put a target on his back.