“You always ruin everything.” Those were my father's last words before he closed the curtains and left me lying twenty feet below his shattered second-floor window.

Spring arrived in Alaska with a sudden, violent thaw.

The massive snowbanks along the Fairbanks highways melted into rushing streams of gray slush, and the first stubborn green shoots of tundra grass began piercing through the damp earth.

With Carver Logistics liquidated under federal bankruptcy receivership, the corporate assets were auctioned off to satisfy creditors and employee back-pay claims. Arthur Pendelton received a reduced sentence of probation in exchange for his full cooperation as a primary federal witness, allowing him to return home to his family and begin rebuilding his life.

As for me, I had discharged from the Alpine Rehabilitation Center in late April.

I was no longer confined to a wheelchair. Supported by a pair of heavy-duty titanium forearm crutches, I could walk short distances across the hardwood floor of the cozy two-bedroom cabin Rosalind and I had rented on the wooded outskirts of town.

My recovery was far from complete. Dr. Hayes warned me that nerve regeneration was a painfully slow process, and I might always walk with a slight limp or require a cane on bad days. But my spirit was entirely unbroken.

One sunny Tuesday morning in May, I sat on the front porch of our cabin, sipping black coffee and reviewing medical paperwork from my Seattle employer.

My long-term disability and workers' compensation claim had finally been fully processed and approved, retroactive to the date of my helicopter accident. The financial settlement wasn't a five-million-dollar corporate windfall, but it was enough to cover my medical bills, clear my credit cards, and fund my physical therapy without depending on anyone else.

My phone buzzed on the small wooden table beside my crutches.

I picked it up. An incoming call from an unlisted Seattle area code.

I swiped the screen and pressed it to my ear.

“Fallon Carver?” a crisp, professional voice asked.

“Speaking.”

“Hi Fallon, this is Chief Marcus Miller with Seattle Air-Rescue Operations. I’m following up on your administrative medical clearance status.”

My heart skipped a beat. “Chief Miller. Hi. I didn't expect to hear from you directly.”

“Well, we received your updated neurological assessment from Dr. Hayes last week,” Chief Miller said, his tone warm and familiar. “According to the medical board, your upper-body strength is fully restored, your wrist rehabilitation has exceeded all benchmarks, and your lower-extremity mobility is progressing faster than expected with assistive devices.”

I held my breath, gripping the edge of the porch railing. “Where are you going with this, Chief?”

“Our flight coordination department is currently short-handed on regional dispatch and aerial medical triage supervisor roles,” Miller explained. “It’s a desk-and-radio position based out of our primary Seattle base. No repelling down mountainsides or hoisting patients out of helicopter doors, but it requires an experienced flight paramedic who knows how to manage crisis response in the air.”

I stared out across the thawing Alaskan pine forest, a slow, radiant smile spreading across my face.

“When do I start?” I asked.

“We can have your remote-transition paperwork processed by Monday, and your physical relocation package covered by the department,” Miller chuckled. “Welcome back to the team, Fallon. We missed you.”

“Thank you, Chief. I’ll be ready.”

I hung up the phone, setting it gently on the table.

Rosalind stepped out onto the porch carrying a tray of warm blueberry muffins, her eyes catching the expression on my face.

“You look like the cat that caught the canary,” she noted, setting the tray down. “Good news?”

“The best news,” I said, standing up on my crutches and taking two steady, balanced steps forward under my own power. “Seattle Air-Rescue wants me back.”