Snowhook by Jo Storm

he top of the bag, and sure enough, there were puncture marks through the material. The material was waterproof, but still thin, so the crampons had punctured it like tissue. She lifted the camping stove and shook the canister. It was almost completely empty. They had only used it twice; there should have been lots of fuel left.

She looked back at the piles. “What are you doing?”

“These are fine,” he said, pointing to the pile with the first-aid kit and the hatchet. “We can wash them off, and the matches are waterproof, anyway. But these ones …”

He pointed at the other pile, where most of the food packets were.

Hannah reached out slowly and picked up a “Ham ‘N’ Eggz” packet. It was coated in fuel oil, and when she turned it over, she saw puncture marks.

“It’s not my fault,” said Peter. He sat on his haunches, looking down between his legs at the ground.

“I know,” she said.

Then both continued, almost exactly at the same time, “You always pack food at the top.”

No, it wasn’t Peter’s fault. You packed food at the top of the supplies, so it was easy to get to and put up out of the way of predators. Dealing with food was always one of the first things you did when camping, after setting up the tent.

The tent. Hannah scrambled over to the sled. The tent bag was one of the items that she had picked up out of the snow. If it was covered in fuel, they wouldn’t be able to use it, and then they’d be in real trouble.

But it was probably okay, because it had been thrown clear of the bag when the sled tipped. A small thing, an important thing. But still, it felt like ever since she had seen that rabbit, she was living in a nightmare.

“I thought rabbits were supposed to be lucky,” she said, staring at their ruined supplies.

More than half of their food supply had been punctured in the fall, then poisoned with the stove fuel, making it useless. She had started out with a king’s ransom of food, and now there was only enough for one more day for the two of them, plus the leftovers she had grabbed from the fridge and a few energy bars that had been packed in the other bag and thus escaped contamination.

The camping stove and food packets had been inside their own smaller bag within the big black packsack, which might have limited the disaster somewhat. Hannah’s extra gloves were still usable, but the last-minute items she had pushed into the pack — including the wool sweater she’d used to keep Sencha warm overnight — were soaked. So, too, was the bag holding the utensils, pots, and stove. For such a small canister, the smell was strong, and Hannah’s head began to pound after a while. She drank more water.

“We could probably keep this,” said Peter. He held up a packet with only tiny pinpricks in it.

“No,” said Hannah. She was using snow and the tiny bottle of camp soap to clean what could be reused. “It’s no good.”

“You don’t have to eat it, I will,” said Peter.

She shoved the empty fuel canister in front of his glasses. “See the big red warning label? Poison.” She grabbed the packet and tossed it with the others. They tied all the spoiled gear together and hung it from a nearby tree branch so it wouldn’t poison any animals, then packed the sled again.

“Isn’t there a thing that covers all this stuff?” he asked as Hannah looped pieces of rope over and across the frame.

“Yeah, it’s called a sled bag. It fits over the sled and has a zipper so stuff can’t fall out.”

“Why don’t you have one?” he asked.

The rope under her fingers was climbing rope, thick and slightly spongy. It tied easily, and Hannah concentrated on making sure the slipknots she made would allow easy access later, when she wanted to undo them. She didn’t say anything.

“You forgot it,” he said.

She finished and looked up at him. She thought about the snow goggles, and the sound of her mom’s insulin ampoules skittering across the counter like angry spiders. She remembered the sudden look of fear that had crossed her mother’s face as they looked down at the broken pieces.

“I didn’t think I’d need it,” she said.

“Nuh-uh, you forgot it.”

Her mother hadn’t gotten angry at her for making that mistake, and yet here she was lying about it, doing exactly what she hated other people to do. She sighed, feeling sadness creep past her shame.

“Yeah. I forgot it.” She put her hands on the basket and pushed herself up to standing. She remembered the extra blankets, the headlamp, tissues. “I forgot a lot of things.”

“Okay.” Peter shrugged, took his toque out of his pocket, and put it on. He made a fist, leaned over, and bopped her shoulder. “Let’s get to Jonny’s place. I’m starving.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN