High on the mountain helipad, Remi the rescue helicopter sat very still. The last light was fading. Snow glittered on the peaks above her. Then — beep-beep-BEEP — her radio crackled to life. "Two hikers stranded on Snowcap ledge! Rockslide blocking the path!" Remi's rotors began to spin.
Whup-whup-whup-whup. Up she lifted, into the cold purple sky. Her winch swung gently beneath her — a long steel cable with a sturdy hook at the end, bright as a silver fish. The winch was Remi's special thing. Lower it down, reel it up. That was the job.
She flew over pine trees dusted with snow, over a frozen stream that caught the moonlight like a mirror, over boulders the rockslide had tumbled like toys. The mountain air was sharp and thin. Remi's engines hummed steadily. Whup-whup-whup-whup.
Then she spotted the ledge. Two shapes huddled there, small and round and very, very white. Remi hovered closer. She switched on her searchlight. Those weren't hikers. Those were sheep.
Two extremely round, extremely woolly sheep blinked up at her. One had a muddy black dot on her ear — that one was Dot. The other had a look on her face as if she had absolutely no idea how any of this had happened. Her name, Remi decided, was Biscuit.
"Don't worry!" Remi called down. Whup-whup-whup-whup. She lowered her winch carefully, hook spinning, cable unreeling with a steady zzzzt-zzzzt-zzzzt. The hook reached Dot. Remi tried to attach it to her wool. The hook slid right off. Too fluffy.
She tried again. The hook slid off again. Dot shook her head. Biscuit sneezed. This was the problem with very round, very woolly sheep — nothing hooked onto them. Remi looked at the ledge. She looked at her hook. She looked at the old wooden bucket sitting between the two sheep, its handle sticking up like an invitation.
Ah-HA.
Remi lowered the hook one more time — zzzzt-zzzzt-zzzzt — right through the bucket's handle. Click. The hook caught perfectly. "Hop on!" Remi called. Dot put her front hooves on the bucket's rim. Biscuit squished in beside her. The bucket swayed. Their eyes went very wide.
Then up they went. Slowly, steadily, the winch reeled in — whirr-whirr-whirr — and the two sheep rose through the cold air, hooves gripping, wool ruffling, the whole valley spreading out below them like a patchwork quilt. Biscuit made a small sound. It might have been "oh."
Remi tucked them gently into her cargo bay. It smelled like machine oil and old wool and one slightly muddy hoof. Dot turned three small circles and lay down. Biscuit folded her legs beneath her. Within thirty seconds, both sheep were snoring — a low, rumbling, satisfied snore.
Whup-whup-whup-whup. Remi flew back down the mountain, past the frozen stream, past the pine trees, and landed softly in the farmyard. The farmer came running with a lantern, its flame jumping in the dark. He stared at his sheep. They did not wake up. He carried them to the barn one at a time.
Remi lifted off one last time and turned for home. Below her, the barn light went out. The mountain was quiet and dark and enormous. Whup-whup-whup.
She settled onto her helipad with a long, slow sigh of her engines. The rotors turned — slower, slower, still. The winch coiled itself neat and tight. The engines ticked once, twice, then went cool and quiet in the night air.
Remi sat still on her mountain, hook tucked, cable coiled, the stars coming out above her one by one.
