Snowhook by Jo Storm

The fire snapped and more sparks flew skyward, climbing higher into the snowless air. She could feel the dropping temperature on the edges of her cheeks and on her bare hands, which held her emergency blanket loosely around her. Beads of sweat appeared on Peter’s forehead.

“Whew,” he said, pushing the silver foil down to his waist. “I’m sweating up a storm. These blankets are awesome.” Hannah’s classmates used the word awesome with irony whenever they were instructed to do something they didn’t want to, like write on the board or pick up gym equipment. But Peter said it like it was something important. The word was a perfect summation of the blanket. “I won’t need it tonight,” he continued. “If you want, well … maybe you can use it for the dog … the Dalmatian … or whatever.”

Hannah picked up the poker — the long, fire-blackened stick Peter had selected to control the size and shape of the fire — and stabbed at it. Another line of sparks flew skyward, a red gangline headed to the stars. She could say many things right now, talk and talk, but it didn’t fit here. It didn’t fit the cold, because talking was wasting energy. It didn’t fit the fire, which kept them warm in its simple way. It didn’t fit winter. Talking was another summer skill. “Thanks,” she said simply. And she meant it.

Peter nodded, pulled his last stitch tight, and bit through the thread to snap it. Then he slid his hand in and opened and closed it to test the mend. He handed her back the glove. She didn’t say thanks again, and he didn’t seem to mind. He put the needle away and threw the remaining short end of thread into the fire.

They sat watching the fire for a while. Hannah was full, her belly and body full of warmth and her head full of thoughts. In school, she remembered writing down a list of leadership qualities like they were parts of a game. Out here, only a few parts of all of that were important. Maybe Peter was right, about the difference between learning from books and learning from experience. But that didn’t seem quite right; without her course on leadership — learning from books — she wouldn’t have understood why she had to take the lead, or how. Then she th

ought of her father patiently teaching her to identify birch from maple when she was young. It seemed to her that both were important. You learned some stuff in stillness, and some stuff by doing.

Peter wiped more sweat off his forehead and took off his sweater. The armpits of his long-sleeved shirt were wet, and seeing that, Hannah had another idea. She pushed herself up and went to the tent. In the vestibule she could barely see Sencha, because there was little light away from the fire, and because the Dal had burrowed her entire body except for her nose into the bag. She opened her eyes briefly as Hannah gingerly felt around her, but she didn’t move, not even when Hannah had to pull something out from under her. She made sure Sencha was well covered again and walked back to the fire.

“Here,” she said, holding out a pair of socks and a long undershirt.

“They won’t fit me.”

“Take them. They’re clean, and you need them.”

“No thanks.”

“Come on,” she said. “I’m giving them to you, for free, okay? You can have the gloves, too.” She wagged her hands, which were clad in her second pair. “These ones fit me better.”

“They won’t fit,” he repeated, reaching out nonetheless to take the items. He fingered the expensive wicking fabric of the undershirt. It was dark blue and made from merino wool, lighter than regular wool and warmer, too.

“The socks are tube socks, so they’ll be okay. And the shirt is my dad’s.”

Peter looked unhappy with his hands full of gifts. He put his glasses in his pants pocket and took off his old undershirt, then put the new one on and smoothed it down. He looked less unhappy. “Why do you have one of your dad’s shirts?”

She looked at him and shrugged. “I don’t know. You never know, right?”

His face cleared and he laughed. “Right. You never know.”

The cold night seemed to recede a bit, and Hannah relaxed. They were going to be okay. They might not be friends, but at least they had things in common now. And that was all she really needed until they got to Jonny Swede’s and she got the snowmobile. After that, she didn’t really care.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Hannah woke to find a sheen of frost on her sleeping bag, despite the fact they were inside a tent — this was the result of the moisture from her and Peter’s breathing. At the first sign of movement, Sencha whined from the vestibule, crinkling Peter’s emergency blanket, which Hannah had placed around her before going to bed. Her own emergency blanket had fallen off sometime during the night. Hannah sat up, gasping at the cold, and opened the zipper of her sleeping bag. Sencha shot inside it. Peter, waking to the movement, drew back in alarm, but the Dal wasn’t interested in anything but Hannah’s warm sleeping bag. She crawled in and lay down with a series of groans and huffs, shivering dramatically.

Hannah went outside and Peter scrambled after her, donning his toque and shuddering as he closed his jacket tightly.

“By the Jesus, it’s cold,” he said between chattering teeth. “Minus fifteen, at least.”

They stamped their feet and slapped their arms to get blood flowing into their hands and feet. The fire had gone out long ago, but they covered it carefully with snow before setting up the heat shield and the stove and warming up breakfast. Hannah took out two energy bars, as well. There were three bars and three packets left, but they wouldn’t need them once they got to Jonny’s, so she took the third energy bar and broke it up, feeding half to Sencha and half to Bogey. The sled dogs looked the same as they always did, long and efficient, but the house dogs were changing; their flanks were leaner, and the muscles on their back legs were visible even when they were just standing there without moving. Bogey’s shoulders had additional bulk on them, and Sencha’s chest reminded Hannah of a horse’s — deep and padded and wide. Despite eating breakfast, Hannah was starving, and she said so.

“Don’t worry, Jonny’ll make us pancakes,” said Peter. “He loves making pancakes. And his own syrup, special. And breakfast sausages, too.”

“Good, and just in time, too,” said Hannah. She pointed back behind them. “Looks like a big storm is coming in.”

She shivered, not from the cold, but from anticipation. She enjoyed a few minutes of daydreaming about sliding into Timmins, getting the insulin, then getting an escort back, maybe even with an OPP officer, or maybe — she let herself dream big — an RCMP officer, because it was an emergency. She might even make it into the papers. Her parents would let her go to the sports camp for sure after that. They couldn’t say no.

Then she told herself that she couldn’t be weak now, so close to the end. She roused the dogs, and they stood and stretched and shook. Shards of ice fell off Bogey’s ruff, and his muzzle had a white fringe, but he was not shivering. In fact, he kept looking back as he made off to do his business, waiting until she turned away before going.

Hannah devised a makeshift coat for Sencha using one of her shirts. It seemed to help, but she was still concerned about the short-haired dog’s belly, which was bare, so she tied extra material there and wrapped lead lines around Sencha’s torso to keep it in place.

Plumes of steam rose from their faces into the morning air. It was cold. It was very cold. So cold that stopping for even a minute as they packed up meant that the cold went from knocking on the door of their lungs to stepping right inside the veranda of their parkas, the pantry of their leggings, the mudroom of their boots. The cold air stepped in and stayed until they forced it out with movement, whooshing warm air back into the house of their clothes by sheer effort. Hannah put a scarf over her face, because breathing through her nose made her nose hair freeze and her sinuses hurt. For the first time since they had fled Jeb’s cabin, the sun was out, but its weak light didn’t even warm their faces. All it did was highlight their breath, showcasing how cold it was.

Finally ready, they pulled away from their trampled little campsite. It was sure to be back the way they’d found it within a few hours, after the wind scoured the lake.