Her hands trembled as she took it. The cup clinked against her teeth when she tried to drink.
Garrett watched her struggle, and something in his chest tightened in a way he didn’t like. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t anger.
It was recognition.
Not of her, but of desperation itself. He’d worn it once, years ago, before he dragged his life up the mountain and buried it under snow.
“What’s your name?” he asked.