Chapter 3: The Signature They Refused

At my follow-up appointment, the doctor checked my wound and flipped through my bloodwork.

"You're anemic, and your stomach lining shows signs of long-term stress," she said, her eyes on me. "Do you often miss meals?"

I thought about the peak of winter guiding season. My parents and Lily would be in the lodge restaurant with sponsors while I sat at the dispatch desk for twelve hours at a stretch. The kitchen staff usually left me cold coffee and unopened guest crackers.

"Sometimes."

She clearly didn't believe me but didn't push, prescribing medication instead. Then she told me to go to the insurance desk and get a guardian's signature on one more form.

I was nineteen days shy of my eighteenth birthday.

Downstairs, I saw my parents coming out of the sports medicine center with Lily.

Lily was shooting a climbing ad next week, and the sponsor wanted proof of her physical fitness. My mother was holding a stack of reports, while my father carried Lily's bag.

The receptionist smiled. "Miss Bennett is in great shape. You two take such wonderful care of your daughter."

My mother looked proud. "We're with her for every training session."

I stood ten feet away, my leg throbbing under its bandage.

Same last name. Same two parents.

One daughter's slight dizziness warranted a full family escort. The other's cry for help was rewritten as an equipment malfunction.

Lily saw me first.

The smile vanished from my father's face. "What are you doing here?"

"Follow-up. The insurance form needs your signature."

He glanced at his watch. "We have a dinner reservation, and there's a trial shoot this afternoon."

"The desk is right there. It'll take two minutes."

My mother pulled Lily closer. "Mara, we can't derail everyone's day just because you have some last-minute problem."

The woman at the insurance window heard her and looked up.

I lowered my voice. "This isn't a problem. This is the result of you reassigning the company rescue vehicle."

My father's jaw tightened.

"Watch your tone. You went onto a closed trail on your own. That's why you got hurt."

"That's the route you told me to verify."

"Do you have a written assignment order?"

I went still.

For years, he had always given me my tasks casually over breakfast. Because I was his daughter—and free labor—there had never been formal paperwork.

Now that convenience had become his weapon against me.

My father said coldly, "If there's no paper trail, don't try to pin this on the company."

"The dispatch desk has recordings."

For a split second, his expression faltered.

My mother cut in immediately. "Enough. Lily's hungry, and we don't have time to stand here while you play the victim."

She linked her arm through my sister's and started toward the exit.

As my father passed, he muttered, "If you want to stay in this family, you'll delete that cloud backup."

I watched him walk away, and whatever hesitation I had left vanished.

The woman at the window slid the form back to me, her voice low. "I can note that your guardian was present but refused to sign. Do you also need the number for the accident assistance agency?"

The unexpected kindness made my eyes sting.

"Yes. Thank you."

She also told me that if my father insisted on denying this was a workplace accident, the bill would fall to me. But the county's minor victim assistance fund could temporarily freeze collections, and the ranger station's incident number would support my application.

My father used a nonexistent piece of paper to disown my injury. A woman I'd known for five minutes found me a way to fight back.

I filled out the application on the spot, photographing every page for my records.

That evening, I moved my flight up to the next morning.