“You’ll survive this. You’re tough.” I laugh, the sound hollow. “No, I’m not.” “Yeah, you are. You’re tough in your own way, Calla. You’ll survive this.” “What if I don’t want to survive this?” I’ll never complain about Alaska again. I’ll live here until I’m old and gray, never thinking of a way out, never wishing I were somewhere else, as long as I can have Jonah. I feel idiotic now. I let such trivial worries consume me for so long. “It’s never up to us, though, is it?”
