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For the third time that evening, Avril Rosseau rechecked her suitcase. The navy, wheeled contraption had three large, zippered pockets, and every one was kept as controlled and tidy as her well-organised mind. In the first pocket were her clothes - thick and warm to protect from the extreme cold, and with fluorescent or reflective stripes in case of an avalanche, snowstorm or other disaster. The second pocket contained an eclectic combination of a small two-person tent, a sleeping bag, a lantern, a torch, two spare batteries (they both used AA, which wasn’t a coincidence), and various other useful items - like night-vision goggles and other utilities. The third pocket… well, hopefully she would never need to use what was in the third pocket.
Was Avril an overpacker? You could say that.
Sighing, she left her preparations and went to ensure that the rest of the household were packed. Properly packed. She couldn’t trust them not to leave something behind. And you never knew when that something could be crucial.
“Maurice!” Avril called as she walked down the hallway to his room, “I’m just going to check what Maman has packed for you.”
“M’kay Avi,” he murmured, in the process of stuffing yet another teddy bear into his bag. The rest of his preparations she deemed “good enough,” the same as their parents’.
She wrote an inventory of their packings in her journal, before finishing with the worry that had been plaguing her all day.
Cher journal intime,
There are twenty-four avalanche-related fatalities in the Alps every year. And we will be there all the way from France to Switzerland. Will my family be some of that number?
She paused, then made up her mind.
No, she wrote. Because I won’t let them.
Was Avril an overpacker? You could say that.
Sighing, she left her preparations and went to ensure that the rest of the household were packed. Properly packed. She couldn’t trust them not to leave something behind. And you never knew when that something could be crucial.
“Maurice!” Avril called as she walked down the hallway to his room, “I’m just going to check what Maman has packed for you.”
“M’kay Avi,” he murmured, in the process of stuffing yet another teddy bear into his bag. The rest of his preparations she deemed “good enough,” the same as their parents’.
She wrote an inventory of their packings in her journal, before finishing with the worry that had been plaguing her all day.
Cher journal intime,
There are twenty-four avalanche-related fatalities in the Alps every year. And we will be there all the way from France to Switzerland. Will my family be some of that number?
She paused, then made up her mind.
No, she wrote. Because I won’t let them.