Zeke slipped into unconsciousness again.
She froze.
Then chaos.
Her fingers dialed the number of the man who gave her the keys to the cabin. Her voice cracked as she explained what happened—her panic lacing every word.
"Please… please call a doctor," she begged.
But the reply came like a quiet thunder:
"Snow's too heavy. No one can come this far."
She stood still.
Eyes locked on Zeke—shivering, pale, fading.
She grabbed her phone again.
Tried every number she could think of.
Random, desperate, hollow calls to people whose names still sat in her contact list—
a list that had turned into a graveyard.
Call ended.
Line busy.
Switched off.
No answer.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
She stared at the screen, her vision blurring.
How many times had she done this?
Late night. Empty street. Cold wind biting through her coat.
Clutching her phone like a lifeline.
Hoping someone—anyone—would pick up.
Just to talk.
Just to stay on the line until she reached home.
But no one ever did.
And here she was again.
Four years later.
Same helplessness.
Same silence on the other end of the phone.
Only now, someone's life was slipping through her fingers.
And still—
no one answered.
She looked at him again.
Lying on her floor.
Still. Cold. Unmoving.
Her heart raced.
She put the phone down.
Wiped her tears.
And whispered to herself, just like all those lonely nights before:
"You've got to do it alone… again."