Leaving You at the Summit

During the fall break camping trip, our senior, Seth, bought four barbecue meal combos for the campfire. Five people. Four meals. When I asked aloud who wasn’t eating, my boyfriend, Trent, cut in before anyone else could speak: "Babe, aren't you on that calorie deficit anyway?" Brianna, the underclassman who had latched onto our hiking group a month ago, chimed in immediately with wide, doe-like eyes. "Oh, right! Avery is so disciplined, I could never." Chase, my childhood friend, chuckled and nudged my shoulder. "Be a doll and grab us some drinks, would you? The ice chest is down near the general store." Seth tossed his car keys into my chest. "There’s an extra bag of charcoal in the trunk, too. Haul that up while you’re at it." The camp store was at the foot of the ridge—a forty-minute round trip on winding gravel roads. By the time I dragged myself back up the trail, carrying a heavy flat of bottled sodas and two twenty-pound sacks of lump charcoal, the fire was already dying down. They were finished. On the metal grill grate, there wasn't so much as a stray scrap of brisket or a single charred rib left. Trent let out a slow, satisfied burp, patting his stomach. "What took you so long?" Brianna licked barbecue sauce off her thumb, looking at me with feigned pity. "Seriously, Avery, you’re kind of slow." I stared at the four empty foil tins sitting on the picnic table, greasy and discarded. My throat felt thick, completely stripped of words. Chase thrust a heavy-duty trash bag into my hands. "Alright, clean up the scraps, Avery. We won't hold the delay against you." Seth opened his trunk, rummaged through a gear crate, and pulled out an unopened pack of dry survival ration crackers, tossing it onto my lap. "Here. Good for your diet. Healthy, clean carbs." In that quiet, humiliating moment, a memory flickered unbidden in my chest: every single time we had hiked together over the past three years, I had ended up trailing several paces behind. It wasn't because I lacked stamina. It was because they had never once paused to wait for me. I gripped the pack of crackers until the foil split and the dry biscuits turned to dust in my fist. Then I turned on my heel and began walking down the mountain trail. This time, I was done being their pack mule. … I was halfway down the switchback trail before Trent’s call finally came through. I stared at his name glowing on the dark glass of my phone, letting it ring for three full seconds before pressing accept. "Avery? Did you take Seth’s car keys with you?" His tone was sharp and impatient. Not a single word asking where I was, or why I had vanished into the pitch-black woods alone. I tightened my fingers around the brass key ring, the notched metal biting painfully into my skin. "Yes." "Everyone’s sleeping bags are locked in his trunk," Trent snapped. "Bring them back up right now. Brianna is freezing." Through the speaker, Brianna’s soft, breathy voice drifted in the background. "Trent, please, don't yell at her... She didn't get to eat anything, so it’s totally normal that she’s cranky. I can just shiver through the night, really..." Trent’s voice hardened into that low, disappointed register he always used when I failed to be accommodating. "You hear that? Brianna is literally making excuses for you, and you're pulling a childish tantrum. Stop making everyone suffer just to get attention." A faint, bitter part of me had harbored a ridiculous hope: that he might have run after me. That he might have jogged just a hundred yards down the path to ask if I was hungry, or if I was okay. Instead, his only concern was Seth’s key fob, and whether Brianna had a plush goose-down cocoon to keep her warm. Ahead, the yellow floodlights of the ranger outpost cut through the pine trees. I walked into the automated locker bay, shoved the keys into an empty compartment, and texted the retrieval PIN to Seth. "Come down and get them yourself," I said into the phone. Trent went quiet for two beats. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" "Exactly what I said." "Avery, pick your battles. Tomorrow morning is the regional orienteering qualifier. You’re our lead navigator. Don't blow this for the whole squad over your hurt feelings." I didn't answer. I hung up on him. Ten minutes later, the group chat buzzed. Seth: [Got the keys.] Chase chimed in right after: [You’ve been doing this since middle school, Avery. The second you get sulky, you run off and wait for us to chase you down.] Brianna dropped an emoji of a weeping kitten: [This is all my fault for eating Avery’s portion. If it makes things right, I can try to throw it up for her...] Trent replied within seconds: [Not your fault, Bri. Let her starve for a night. It'll clear her head.] I swiped out of the chat, walked up to the ranger desk, and bought a ticket for the final valley shuttle back to campus. The ranger on duty glanced at my empty hands, eyebrows raised. "Traveling alone? Where are your hiking buddies?" "I don't have any," I murmured. I had just sat down on the hard plastic waiting bench when the heavy glass doors swung open. Seth stepped inside, his jaw set in a line of weary condescension. He didn't mention the keys. Instead, he unzipped my daypack without asking, reaching inside to yank out my ruggedized tablet. "The course maps for tomorrow are on this," Seth said, tucking it under his arm. "I'm holding onto it tonight. Just in case you decide to skip out on us before dawn." I grabbed the corner of the case, my knuckles turning white. "That belongs to me, Seth." Seth looked down at me, adopting the practiced, paternal tone he used during club meetings. "Avery, don't make this harder than it needs to be. You've always been the sensible one, the one who looks at the bigger picture. Don't act out now." With a swift, practiced twist, he wrenched the tablet free from my fingers. Chase pushed through the door right behind him, casually chewing on a leftover charred skewer. "Shuttle’s out of service anyway. Grab your stuff and come back up the hill." I glanced past his shoulder at the backlit schedule board on the wall. The last departure wasn't for another fifteen minutes. Chase caught the direction of my eyes, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "The access roads are closed to foot traffic after dark. It’s a safety violation to wander down alone. Trent told me to come get you." So Trent hadn't stayed behind out of necessity. He just hadn't thought I was worth the personal trip. When we climbed back into the clearing, a warm lantern was already glowing inside my personal two-person tent. The zipper parted, and Brianna poked her head out, bundled up to her chin inside my bespoke, ultra-light down sleeping bag. "Avery! You’re back!" she beamed, blinking up at me. "I get totally freaked out by the dark, so Trent told me I could crash in your tent." Trent was sitting on a folding stool nearby, adjusting the wick of a camp stove, not even bothering to look up. "You can take the supply tent tonight. It’s only for a few hours." "That’s a single-wall emergency shelter," I said, my voice hollow. "The condensation bleeds through by three in the morning." "You've slept in far worse during winter alpine training," he dismissed, flicking the lighter. "This is Brianna’s first serious overnight trek. Is it really going to kill you to show a little hospitality?" With that, he reached into his pocket and handed Brianna a brushed-silver storm whistle on a paracord lanyard. My breath caught. That whistle was the gift he gave me the day we summited Mount Mitchell together—the day we officially started dating. Engraved on its side were the precise geographic coordinates of the summit peak. Brianna looped it eagerly around her neck, fingering the cold metal. "Avery, do you mind if I borrow this for safety? You don't mind, right?" I stood there, waiting for Trent to step in, to take it back, to draw some kind of line. Instead, he merely leaned over and smoothed out a tangle in the cord around her collar. "It’s just a whistle. She isn't that petty." My fingers slowly loosened on the tent flap. I didn't argue. I didn't explain. For the first time in four years, I found myself perversely curious to see just how much they could take from me before they realized there was nothing left to strip away. And when Trent zipped the tent shut from the outside, his eyes never once met mine. By six in the morning, dawn was barely a gray smear across the ridge. Seth dropped a massive, fifty-liter gray expedition pack at my feet with a thud. "Team gear," he said. "You're carrying it." I pulled the zipper open. Inside were the bulk first-aid kit, four liters of water, spare radio batteries, and two fifty-meter dynamic climbing ropes. It weighed at least thirty-five pounds. "Why me?" Chase was busy kneeling beside Brianna, carefully adjusting the straps on her brand-new knee braces. He let out a dry laugh. "You skipped prep training yesterday afternoon to sulk. Pulling a little extra weight today is the bare minimum, don't you think?" "I hauled the charcoal and your drinks up a two-mile grade last night." "Because you were dragging your feet. Don't repackage your own incompetence as teamwork, Avery." I turned my head toward Trent. During every previous trial, he had instinctively taken half of my load. He knew better than anyone that my right knee had suffered a meniscus tear two seasons ago, and that my pack weight was strictly capped at twenty pounds. Trent avoided my gaze. Instead, he unpinned the laminated bib marked "Team Captain" and leaned over to fasten it to the chest of Brianna's windbreaker. That bib had my name printed on the roster. I caught the edge of the fabric before he could finish. "What is this?" Brianna flinched backward, her lower lip trembling instantly. "Avery, please don't be mad! Seth just said... he said since it's my first official race, having the captain mark would give me confidence..." Seth pulled out a freshly reprinted roster sheet from his clipboard, tapping a blunt fingernail against the bottom margin. "You're on course logistics and support today, Avery. Brianna is taking your slot on the active running squad." On the paper, a clean black line was drawn through my name. In its place was Brianna’s looping, girlish signature. I stared up at Seth. "I drafted the topographical route. I translated the technical rulebook. My splits were the fastest during the three-month qualifier block. On what grounds are you replacing me?" "On the grounds that you went AWOL last night," Seth replied evenly. "Your head isn't in the game. You're emotionally erratic, Avery." "I never consented to withdraw." "You threw a two-hour tantrum down at the service depot. We have a championship bid on the line; we can't stake our entire season on whether you decide to cooperate." Teams from rival universities were already gathering on the staging lawn, stretching and checking their compasses. Hearing our raised voices, several competitors turned to stare. Trent clamped his hand around my wrist, pulling me aside, his voice a furious hiss. "Stop embarrassing us in front of everyone. Brianna is just filling in. The collective victory belongs to the whole team anyway. What difference does it make whose boots cross the line?" "If it makes no difference, why isn't she on logistics?" Brianna bit her lip, reaching up with trembling hands to unpin the bib. "I'll give it back to Avery... I really don't want to come between you two over a silly race spot..." She moved with agonizing slowness, her wide, wet eyes fixed entirely on Trent. Right on cue, Trent’s hand shot out to stop her. "Keep it on. You busted your ass during prep, Bri. Nobody is pushing you out." He turned back to me, cold and disgusted. "As for you, Avery—learn to take accountability for your own pettiness." The lead official strolled over with a whistle around his neck to verify the final team rosters. Seth smoothly stepped in front of me, nudging me toward the perimeter of the staging area as the media cameras swung past. "And this is our logistics volunteer, Avery." An official from the state athletic board paused, squinting at his tablet. "Wait, isn't the primary cartographer listed as Avery on the submitted route dossier?" Seth flipped open the glossy, newly printed handbook he had received from the press tent. Emblazoned across the cover in bold typography was Brianna’s name. Brianna ducked her head in modest self-effacement. "Oh, the guys helped so much! I just did some light formatting and organization." That dossier had gone through seventeen drafts. Trent had sat beside me through two separate all-nighters, drinking terrible gas-station coffee, whispering that once we took the trophy, he was going to make sure my name was stitched into the club’s championship banner. Now, he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Brianna, his lips sealed shut. When the tournament photographer motioned for the group shot, I stepped toward them out of sheer muscle memory. Chase held out a stiff arm, blocking my path. "Active roster only, Avery. It looks messy with five." "Click." The shutter fired. The four of them stood in matching navy-and-gold technical shells, shoulders pressed tight, smiling into the morning sun. I stood ten feet back on the wet grass, the thirty-five-pound canvas pack dragging my shoulders down. The photographer lowered his camera, offering an awkward, sympathetic half-smile. "Hey, do you want one with your support crew?" Trent checked his GPS watch. "No time. She doesn't like having her picture taken anyway." A strange, frozen clarity washed over me. I slipped the heavy straps off my shoulders and let the pack drop at Trent’s feet. "I'm not doing logistics," I said. "And I'm resigning from the team." Trent looked at me, completely unbothered. There wasn't an ounce of panic in his posture—only the smug weariness of a man dealing with a predictable toddler. He casually kicked the pack back against my shins. "When the race is over and you've worked through your little routine," he said, turning away, "come find me and apologize." The starter’s horn blared across the valley. Wearing the bib that bore my athletic record, Brianna surged across the start line first. I didn't pick up the bag. Instead, as the dust settled on the trail, I walked directly into the tournament headquarters tent and filed a formal challenge against the authorship credits of the official route dossier. The senior coordinator flipped through the electronic records on her screen, looking troubled. "The system submission came from Brianna’s account, with Seth listed as the student advisor. Your name isn't attached to any of the primary metadata." "The master CAD files and drafting history are stored on my tablet," I said. "The version history will prove the file creation dates." "Then bring me the tablet." I called Seth immediately. It rang until it went to voicemail. On the second attempt, Trent picked up the team channel. "We’re on the middle leg, Avery. What do you want now?" "Put Seth on the line. I need my tablet back." "We’ll deal with your gear after the finish." "He used my personal device to upload Brianna’s name over my work. I am filing a formal grievance right now." A heavy silence hung over the receiver before Trent’s voice returned, brittle and frigid. "It’s a student trail guide, Avery. Are you seriously willing to sabotage the team's entire season over a piece of paper?" "It’s "my" work, Trent." "We are a unit! Why do you always have to turn everything into a selfish accounting ledger?" Through the open tent flap, I could see the bulletin board outside. Pinned to the cork was the official announcement for the National Collegiate High-Altitude Training Fellowship. The top individual contributor from the winning team was guaranteed a six-month sponsored residency at the Olympic training base in Colorado. I had structured my entire academic year around that fellowship. Trent knew every single sacrifice I had made for it. "There’s only one fellowship nomination," I said, my voice dropping to a near whisper. "That's why you stripped my name off the cover, isn't it? To give it to her." A ragged, breathless whimper leaked through the radio from Brianna. "Trent... is Avery furious with me? Maybe I should just drop out right now..." Trent immediately softened, his tone shifting into an intimate murmur. "You're in the middle of a live split, Bri. Keep your eyes on the markers. I'll handle this." Then he turned back to me, the tenderness instantly vanishing. "Brianna graduates next spring, Avery. This is her last shot at an athletic credential. You have plenty of seasons left." "I have this one." "Don't push me today, Avery. Don't do this." The line clicked dead. Thirty minutes later, the squad returned to the base camp early, walking through the recovery area. Brianna was leaning heavily on Trent’s arm, whimpering over a minor red scrape on her ankle, surrounded by Chase and Seth, who were hovering with ice packs and sports tape. I walked straight up to Seth. "My tablet." Seth reached into his gear tote and handed it over without a word. The screen flickered awake to a bright, sterile setup wizard: "Select Your Language." It had been wiped to factory defaults. Every CAD drawing, every timestamped GPX track, every cached login—gone. My fingers went numb against the glass. "Who did this?" Brianna turned pale, shrinking behind Trent’s shoulder. "I was just... I was trying to pull up the contour maps during the third checkpoint, and I accidentally hit the hard reset menu... Avery, I swear I didn't know it would erase everything..." I looked past her, fixing my eyes on Seth. "Do you honestly expect me to believe that?" Seth cracked open a fresh bottle of water and handed it to Brianna. "What’s done is done. Pointing fingers doesn't recover the data." "So my evidence is deleted, and it just doesn't matter?" Chase scowled, tossing a roll of tape onto the bench. "Didn't you keep a physical backup? You're usually obsessively paranoid about your files." "The high-capacity micro-SD card was in my mirrorless camera." I unzipped the top pocket of my personal tote. The camera was gone. Brianna gasped softly, pressing her fingertips to her lips as if struck by sudden memory. "Oh! I wanted to shoot some b-roll footage of the ridge for our recap reel, so I borrowed your camera... but when we were crossing the creek bed, the strap slipped..." She pointed a trembling finger toward the treeline. Trent was just walking back from the creek bank, holding my weather-sealed camera by its ruined strap. The prime lens was shattered, cloudy brown silt clinging to the cracked glass. The rubber port door was torn open. The memory card slot was completely empty. I lunged forward, snatching the soaked body out of his hands. I had worked two jobs at the campus dining hall for an entire year to afford that body. It carried every single mountain summit, every sunrise, every contour of my life for the past twenty-four months. "Where is the card?" Trent set his jaw. "The current swept it away." "Why did you let her touch my gear without my permission?" "She told me she texted you." Brianna nodded frantically, fresh tears brimming in her eyes. "I sent a message! You didn't reply, so I thought... I thought silence meant you were okay with it!" My gaze dropped to the silver storm whistle resting on her collarbones. Without thinking, I reached out and snatched the braided cord. Brianna cried out, clutching the lanyard, the nylon snapping taut and leaving a bright, angry red welt across the side of her throat. Trent slammed his palm against my chest, shoving me back with enough force that my hip collided hard against the metal corner of the picnic table. A hot, blinding spike of pain shot down my thigh. He pulled Brianna behind him like a shield. "Avery! Have you lost your damn mind?" The silver whistle slipped from the snapped cord, bouncing once on the dirt before Trent scooped it into his palm. I held my hand out, my palm shaking. "Give it back." Trent looked down at the scratched metal, his thumb brushing over the engraved coordinates. For a split second, something flickered behind his eyes—a ghost of recognition. It was the first time that day I thought he might come back to himself. I thought, absurdly, that he still remembered the wind on the summit, the promise he had made when he pressed the cold steel into my hand. Then his expression smoothed into flat, punishing resolve. He leaned down and looped the whistle back over Brianna’s head. "When you learn how to behave like a rational human being," Trent said coldly, "maybe I'll ask her to give it back." Just then, the head of the organizing committee walked over, holding an official blue folder which he handed straight to Brianna. "The technical evaluation committee gave the route dossier top marks," the official announced. "Brianna Sutton, you are officially shortlisted for the Colorado fellowship." Brianna clutched the folder to her chest, letting out a breathless squeal before throwing her arms around Trent’s neck. Trent smiled, his hand resting tenderly against the back of her hair. Beside them, lying on the weathered wood of the bench, my drowned camera slowly wept dirty creek water from its fractured lens, drop by drop into the dirt. At eight that evening, Brianna posted an alert in the team chat saying she had lost the silver whistle somewhere near the old scenic overlook. I didn't reply. Ten minutes later, the zipper of the single-wall supply tent screeched open. Trent poked his head through, shining his flashlight directly into my face, rousing me from my sleeping bag. "Brianna thinks the whistle dropped off near the old timber overlook," he said, his breath fogging in the chill air. "You know the unmaintained spurs better than anyone. Come with me to find it." "No." He blinked, clearly taken aback. "I thought that was the one thing you were obsessing over." "If it’s been around her neck, I don't want it anywhere near mine." Trent’s mouth tightened. "Avery, cut the spiteful act. If we find it, it's yours. I'll hand it back to you tonight." He held out a headlamp. I stared at the black elastic band. I had worn that whistle for four years. Not because of its retail value, but because on the day he carved those numbers into the casing, Trent had pulled me into his jacket and promised that no matter how dark the trail got, if I blew that whistle, he would always track the sound to find me. I reached out and took the headlamp. It wasn't forgiveness. It was just the desperate, pathetic need to reclaim the last piece of who I used to be before I walked away completely. Chase and Seth fell in behind us as we started up the unlit switchbacks. When we reached the timber fork, the two-way radio clipped to Trent’s shoulder crackled to life. Brianna’s frantic, sobbing voice burst through the static. "Trent... Trent, please come back... My chest feels so tight, I can't catch my breath..." Trent froze instantly. Seth checked his handheld GPS. "The old overlook is barely half a mile up this spur. Avery can handle the final stretch alone. We need to get Brianna down to the medical tent." I stared dead into Trent’s eyes. "You said you were coming with me." "Brianna is having an acute panic attack, Avery. It's an emergency." "This spur has been closed by the Forest Service for two years. The shale is completely washed out." Chase shoved a spare coil of utility cord into my chest with an exasperated groan. "You could navigate this ridge in your sleep, Avery. Stop competing for attention when someone is actually sick." They turned their backs and started jogging down the trail. Trent paused after four strides, glancing over his shoulder into the beam of my light. "Find the whistle and wait at the trail junction. I'll come back up to walk you in." It was the final lie I allowed myself to believe. I found the whistle twenty minutes later beneath the rotten timber railing of the overlook. It was wedged under a flat slab of limestone. But the braided lanyard wasn't snagged or torn; it was coiled in a neat, deliberate loop. It hadn't fallen off during a hike. It had been placed there. My radio clicked on. Brianna’s giggling voice carried crisp and clear over the open channel. "Do you guys honestly think she’s actually up there searching in the dark?" Chase chuckled. "She treats that cheap metal toy like the holy grail. She’s tearing up the dirt right now, guaranteed." Seth’s dry voice followed: "Keep it down, Bri. If she hears you laughing when she gets back, she'll start another scene." Then Trent spoke. His tone was casual, relaxed, devoid of the panic he had feigned ten minutes ago. "Let her freeze a little. It'll teach her a lesson. Maybe she'll stop throwing around empty threats about quitting." Brianna’s voice purred through the static: "What about the Colorado residency? What if she keeps trying to contest my submission?" "She won't," Trent replied with absolute certainty. "She loves me too much. And she has no life outside this club. Once we get back to campus, I'll buy her dinner, say a few nice things, and she'll fall right back into line." They had known the entire time. They knew I would walk up here. They knew the spur was condemned. The missing whistle was nothing more than an orchestrated disciplinary drill—a little domestic trap designed to break my spine. I depressed the talk button on my radio. "Trent. Where are you?" The channel went dead silent for five agonizing seconds. Trent’s voice came back, stiff and cautious. "We're... we're just heading back to the junction. Keep walking down, Avery." But beneath his words, cutting clean through the speaker, was the automated public address chime from the main campground lodge down in the valley: "The camp store is now closed for the evening." They were already down at the cabins. They had never intended to wait at the junction. Before I could speak, the shale beneath my right boot gave way. There was no sound—just the sickening, instantaneous drop of earth sliding into void. I clawed for the rotten wooden guardrail, but the timber splintered in my grip. I plunged down the forty-degree ravine, tumbling through razor-sharp blackberry brambles and jagged granite boulders until my descent slammed to a halt. My right ankle was wedged deep into a V-shaped rock fissure, twisted at an unnatural, sickening angle. The impact tore the headlamp from my brow; it bounced down the slope and smashed against the stone below, plunging the ravine into ink-black darkness. Agony bloomed through my lower leg, so intense it sucked the air straight out of my lungs. Trembling violently, I felt through the dirt until my fingers brushed the plastic casing of the radio. I keyed the mic, my voice shaking with tears I couldn't swallow down. "I fell... The ridge gave out. My right foot is pinned. I can't move." Chase’s voice answered first, dripping with bored cynicism. "Come on, Avery. This routine is getting pathetic." "I'm not lying to you! Call the mountain rescue unit! Please!" Brianna began to snivel on the open mic. "Is Avery trying to blame me again? Fine! I'll give her the damn fellowship! Just tell her to stop being so dramatic!" Trent cut in, his voice tight with irritation. "Don't listen to her, Bri. She's doing this on purpose to manipulate us." I pressed the call button again. And again. Nobody answered. I pulled out my cell phone. Three percent battery remaining. I didn't waste a single watt trying to call Trent. Instead, using the remaining charge, I forwarded the private cloud link containing all seventeen versions of the route dossier, the serial-numbered receipts for my damaged camera body, and the audio recordings of the team chat directly to the regional athletic committee's official inbox. Then, with fingers stiffening from the mountain frost, I reached down to the safety beacon strapped to my harness and pulled the manual emergency pin. I clutched the silver whistle in my bleeding palm, the metal edges slicing into my torn skin. An hour later, when the sweeping beams of the search-and-rescue team finally sliced through the canopy above, Trent’s irritated voice buzzed through the radio one last time. "Avery, that's enough. Walk your ass back to camp. Don't turn this into a public scandal." I uncurled my fingers. The silver whistle—the one stamped with the coordinates of the day we began—slipped from my hand, clattered against the stone, and vanished into the bottomless dark of the ravine. This time, I didn't reach down to catch it.