A winter storm slams into our La Sal cabin, turning the world outside into white noise and shrinking life to four walls, a handful of flashlights, and the question of who we are when the wind reminds us we’re not in control.

A simple detour off Highway 46 turns into a quiet walk through Old La Sal’s ghost streets—stone foundations, fading light, one sharp yip from the canyon, and four kids suddenly very aware that this valley holds more than grass and old fence posts.