Emily huddled inside a cocoon of blankets, shivering even as she sat inches from the fireplace. The wind howled outside, and a glance to the window revealed a swirling, white cloud set upon a black backdrop. The door of her chalet rattled on its hinges, causing her to jump.

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    She inched closer to the fireplace, taking care to avoid dragging the fleece blankets into the flames. The teacup gripped in her hands did little more to warm her than the fire did.

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    Cold, tired, and full of worry, she cursed everything from the snow to the mountain to her husband, who had foolishly-he considered it bravely-left their chalet earlier in the afternoon to help the old lady further down gather more firewood. His kind heart was one of the many reasons she loved him, but not so much when he was aware the mountain would be engulfed in a blizzard the same day.

“I’ll be back in time,” Emily groused under her breath, trying to assuage her worry. “The blizzard couldn’t possibly come early, now could it?”

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    But with every second her husband remained out her worry grew. What if he got lost again? What if he was attacked by wolves? What if he fell into a ditch somewhere and broke a bone? What if he fell off the mountain?

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    And that did it. Emily kicked off her blankets, bundled up in her thickest snowsuit, and grabbed a sled from the attic along with the thickest rope she could find. “We are both idiots,” she muttered. “Absolute, complete, and utter idiots.”

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    She opened the door, groaning as a wall of snow collapsed inward all over her mother’s favorite rug. She squinted out into the darkness, reaching for one of her ski poles. Using it as a sight cane, she carefully waded out into the curtain of white.

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    “Richard!” she screamed, but she could barely hear herself over the gusts of icy wind. “Richard!” She could hear nothing but the wind, and her heart thumped painfully in despair. He could be laying prone two feet from her, and she would never see or hear him.

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    Gathering her courage, she continued feeling her way down the path, tears of terror freezing to her cheeks. “Rich-”

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    Something grabbed her ski pole and her call for her husband turned to a wordless shriek. She kneeled in the snow, reaching for the blackness near her pole.

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    Her fingers were met with cold, wet fabric and her heart leapt for joy when Richard let go of her pole, icy fingers clutching her hand. But then her joy evaporated as she could feel his groan, and she realized how weak his grip truly was. She practically tore the sled off her back and helped her husband pull himself onto it. She tied the rope around him for good measure and began to pull him back to their chalet, screaming from the exertion of pulling him up the snowy mountain.

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    She slipped, screaming as the sled slid away from her down the mountain path. She lunged to grab ahold of the rope again. Her body was drenched in snow and sweat alike, but she could only feel the rough texture of the rope in her hand. She pulled the sled to her and, after a couple of tries, forced herself to her feet.

She recalled the myth that Sisyphus was forced by the Greek god Zeus to push a boulder up a hill for eternity. A hysterical chuckle burst through her frozen lips that she felt rather than heard. She had wondered what would have happened if Sisyphus had refused. What if he had simply stood with the boulder at the bottom of the hill, unwilling to amuse the gods by performing such a mad task? And that was no mountain, only a hill.

The only motivation she had needed was the thought of her husband forsaken to the blizzard, freezing and groaning with no one able to hear him, while she huddled in front of the fireplace. So, like Sisyphus, every time the sled slipped from her fingers, she dove to stop it, and started over. Her face burned from the cold as her muscles burned from the labor she required of them, but she kept pulling.

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    She had never possessed the most physical strength, but with terror induced adrenaline heating her blood, she managed to do it. She had just enough energy to shove the door closed, bolt it, and pull Richard to the fireplace before she collapsed next to him.

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    Her husband was pale, and his skin felt like ice. His black hair was white with snow and wet as if he’d just taken a cold shower. His blue eyes were dazed, and he could barely bring his hand to cup her cheek, brushing away her tears. She hadn’t noticed she’d broken into sobs.

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    “Em…” he croaked. His body convulsed, trying and failing to warm him even with the help of the fire. Pulling herself together, Emily tore off his drenched clothes and piled every blanket, cloth, or napkin in the house around him. She threw more logs onto the fire, thankful that Richard was the over-preparer that he was, before remembering that it was that same trait that got them into this mess. Then, when the blankets and fire weren’t enough, she stripped and collapsed next to him, curling her body to his and burying her face into the crook of his neck.

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    Within minutes he felt warmer, and he placed a gentle kiss on her temple. “You idiot,” she hissed, still on the brink of tears. He kissed her again, fingers tightening around her shoulder. She shook her head, pressing herself even closer. “You idiot.”

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    Outside the storm raged, and she knew that neither of them would be able to leave for several days. But her husband was safe, and they would deal with that together when needed. Wrapped in Richard’s arms, she felt warm for the first time that night, and they both slept.