Brooke recovered first. She raised her wine and said, “Then may the best sister win.”
My mother laughed too brightly. My father did not raise his glass.
Later, Brooke came into my room holding a friendly expression I had learned not to trust. She said the fellowship mattered more to her because I already had a job.
I told her it mattered to me because I wanted it, and that should have been enough.
She reminded me that Dad had introduced her to a Calder Peak partner. I reminded her that referrals open doors. They did not own the room behind them.
For one second, the pleasant mask slipped.
“You always do this,” she said. “You wait until I’ve worked for something, then turn being overlooked into your special advantage.”
I almost laughed.
I had spent my life making myself smaller so she could call herself exceptional, and now my refusal to disappear looked like aggression to her.
I told her the interview would decide it.
She left without answering.
The next morning, she behaved as though the conversation had never happened. She brought me coffee, complimented my jacket, and suggested we warm up on a blue run before joining our parents.
I wanted to believe the reset because wanting peace had always been my most exploitable weakness.
At the base lodge, she tapped the action camera mounted on her helmet and joked that she would record our sister race for the family video.
While I tightened my boots, she crouched beside my snowboard and said my front binding angle looked wrong. Brooke had ridden longer than I had, so when she offered to adjust it, I let her.
I watched her lift the base plate cover and turn a tool inside the binding. She told me she was moving it 2° to reduce pressure on my knee.
Her helmet was still on. The camera light was small enough that I never noticed it blinking.
When she finished, she pressed down on the binding, smiled, and said, “Perfect. You’ll barely feel a thing.”
I flexed the board once. Nothing moved.
Brooke had not removed the screws. She had backed them out just enough that the base plate would hold under my weight at the lodge and rotate when I put real force through it at speed.
I would not understand that distinction until a technician explained it after the crash.
At the time, all I understood was that my sister had done me a favor and I owed her gratitude.
That was the last ordinary thought I had before we reached the lift.
The run began normally. Brooke pushed off first, carving wide turns while I followed about 30 ft behind. The sky was clear, the snow firm, and I could hear the dry scrape of my edge each time I shifted weight.
I am not an expert rider, but I had snowboarded every winter since high school. I knew what ordinary vibration felt like.
Three turns in, pressure under my front boot changed.
It was subtle, a soft lateral give where the board should have answered immediately. I looked down, saw nothing obvious, and told myself Brooke had adjusted it. She knew what she was doing.
On the next turn, the binding moved again.
My front knee rotated inward, and panic arrived before pain. I tried to flatten the board and slow down, but the slope narrowed where the run curved beside a stand of trees.
I leaned onto my heel edge.