When the Fireworks Begin: a New Year’s Moment That Changes Everything

Some moments don’t begin with excitement—they begin with hesitation.

With wheels skidding on packed snow. With a chair lift running when it shouldn’t be. With the sharp awareness that once you’re off the ground, control belongs to someone else.

On the last night of the year, Chris is being rushed toward a surprise he doesn’t want to understand, surrounded by friends who seem far too confident about something he’s not sure he can do.

It isn’t the cold that makes him pause. It’s the dependence. The fear of being lifted into a place where he can’t manage things on his own.

This scene from The Longest Run captures the moment before everything changes. Before the view. Before the fireworks. Before midnight turns the page.

It’s about choosing trust over fear, saying yes when it would be easier to say no, and discovering that sometimes the start of a new year—and something more—begins with letting yourself be carried.

“Come on, Chris!” Janine breezed past him on the right. “Shake a leg!”

He pushed on his wheels. “Why the rush?”

“It’s 11:30,” Carly called.

“I don’t get it.” His wheels skidded on the packed snow. “Where are we going?”

“To Ramcharger.”

The chair lift? He frowned. “You guys aren’t making sense—and I didn’t drink that much.”

Carly laughed. “It’s a surprise.”

A sudden push from behind made him twist in the seat. Miles grinned down at him, hands on the chair’s handles. Chris lifted his own in mock surrender—no way he was wasting energy fighting it. One, the hill to the lift wasn’t exactly flat. Two, Monte’s training had left his arms feeling like noodles.

He turned his gaze to the Ramcharger chair lift—and froze. The lift was running. People were loading onto it.

They want me to get on it.

His gloved hands tightened on the wheels, slowing himself. “You don’t actually think I’m riding that thing.”

Miles stepped in front of him. “We carry rescue sleds up there every day. They’re heavier than your chair. Piece of cake.”

Yeah—except without my chair, I’m useless. Totally dependent.

“We already talked to the operators,” Carly said. “They’ll stop the lift for you to get on and off.”

Chris shot a look at Taylor. “Did you know about this?”

Taylor’s palms went up. “I know as much as you do.”

Carly knelt in front of him, voice softer. “We have something to show you. It’ll be worth the hassle. I promise. We’ll only help as much as you want. Please?”

She’d nailed the real reason he was hesitating. And with her looking at him like that, how was he supposed to say no?

Besides, hadn’t he promised himself he wouldn’t let the wheelchair stop him from doing anything he would’ve done before? And hadn’t he told both Taylor and Carly he was trying to accept help when he needed it?

He sighed, glanced at the three of them, then grinned. “Fine. Do your worst.”

*****

The chair lift slowed as it reached the apex, the rumble beneath them giving way to the creak of cables overhead. Chris leaned forward, catching Miles’s eye as the other man balanced his folded wheelchair on his knees. “How’s it going?”

Miles grinned. “Weighs less than my two-year-old niece.”

The lift bumped to a stop. Carly and Taylor rose on either side of him.

“Ready?” Taylor offered his arm.

Chris took both Taylor’s and Carly’s arms. “Ready.”

The moment he was upright, he steadied, loosening his hold on Carly. The operator rolled the lift back as Miles set up the wheelchair and maneuvered it behind Chris. Chris lowered himself into it, the cold metal under his palms grounding him. He took the wheels and rolled off the landing ahead of the others, tossing a wave over his shoulder to the operator. The answering wave came from a faceless silhouette in the dark.

The air here was different—still, wide, and bathed in a blue wash of moonlight. The skeletal outlines of four lifts framed the ridge, three of them idle, swaying slightly in the breeze.

A line of patrollers moved toward the dark bulk of Everett’s Restaurant, so he followed. The snow here was packed but stubborn; each push took effort. Carly, Janine, and Taylor flanked him.

“The best spot for this is Everett’s deck,” Carly said. “Problem is, no ramp, and we can’t get inside. We can go around back, or—”

“We planned for this,” Miles said. “Reggie! Patrick!”

Two men appeared out of the shadows, and before Chris could get a word out, they had his entire chair—him included—off the ground.

“Whoa—hey—” He barely had time to clutch the armrests before they set him down again on the back deck.

The view stole the rest of his words.

Below, the base lodge glowed faintly, throwing up just enough light to paint Lone Peak in silver and shadow. The mountain rose like something carved by gods—though he knew the truth was even stranger. Magma that never erupted. Rock harder than its surroundings, resisting wind and glacier until it was the only thing left.

Tonight, it wore a crown: a thin wisp of cloud and a million stars.

“Wow,” he breathed.

“Like the view?” Carly’s voice was close to his ear.

“It’s… amazing.”

He rolled toward the knot of patrollers at the far end.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” Miles said, passing him something that felt oddly light for its size.

“What’s this?”

“Closest thing to champagne in a can.” Miles handed the rest out. “No littering.”

Taylor took off his gloves and aimed his phone light at his can. “Underwood Rosé Bubbles. Never heard of it.” He shrugged and popped his top.

Chris did the same, then reached for Carly’s and opened hers, too. She settled onto his lap as if she belonged there, one arm snug around his shoulders.

“It’s almost time!” Janine called.

Miles hopped onto the railing. “A toast. To the past—good memories kept, bad ones let go. And to the future. I think we can all agree there’s no better place in the world to do that than on this mountain.”

“Here, here!” someone called.

Miles raised his can. “To new friends and a new year!”

Chris raised his can with everyone else. Taylor muttered about the taste, but Chris barely noticed—he was too busy soaking in the moment.

“Ten!” Miles yelled.

The deck echoed the count.

Chris set his can down, arms circling Carly’s waist.

“Six! Five! Four…”

Her eyes drifted past him, across the mountain. He followed her gaze.

“Three! Two! One!”

The world exploded—light tearing across the sky, color splashing against the snow. Not overhead, but coming straight at them from Lone Peak. Reds, blues, golds—each burst painting the mountain in impossible hues.

Fireworks.

Chris’s chest tightened. He couldn’t look away. It was magic, pure and unfiltered.

When the last streak faded and the deep, delayed booms rolled through the cold air, he looked back at Carly. Her hair spilled from under her hat, dark against the snow’s reflection, eyes luminous in the half-light. Her gloves were tight around his neck.

“Happy New Year,” she whispered—and then her mouth was on his, warm in the winter air.

Words would have been useless. He told her with the kiss what he couldn’t say, until Taylor tapped the back of his chair.

“Enough with the kissy-face. We gotta get down the mountain.”

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