Snowhook by Jo Storm

She didn’t answer him but went over to the dogs, concentrating on assessing their condition; if the dogs failed, they would be in deep trouble. They would have to walk, either Timmins or back to Jonny Swede’s, hoping to break in.

“Hannah, are the dogs okay?”

“Tired,” she said, moving to the next one.

Rudy’s paw was fine. Nook, who’d lain down as soon as the sled stopped, didn’t even get up when Hannah looked her over. She could feel a slight trembling in Nook’s legs and back she ran her hands over the lead dog’s body. She was tired. Hannah smoothed down the old dog’s ruff and left her to sleep.

Bogey’s underbelly was starting to lose hair from rubbing against the harness, but otherwise, he was fine. She slapped his flanks the way he liked, and he licked her hand, his tail wagging. Many of her friends had dogs, too, but they were all special small breeds like Papillons and Schipperkes. Bogey was the dog everyone had: large and square and easygoing, obsessive about his ball. But he was solid, and had strength to spare, and did not complain; Hannah would take ten Bogeys over any of those other breeds.

Sencha’s belly was still red, but at least it didn’t seem to be getting worse. She applied more salve. Unlike the double-coated dogs, whose thick fur hid their frame, Sencha’s body readily showed the changes wrought by four days of pulling: her legs were corded with muscle and even her neck had thickened, making her small, equine head look slightly silly. Hannah chuckled as she ran her hands over Sencha’s flanks. A Dalmatian would not take kindly to being made fun of.

When Hannah had finished her dog detail, she unhooked them all, got out the camp stove, and set it up. After cursory explorations, each of the dogs lay down and went to sleep. Hannah took out her dirty clothing from yesterday and the makeshift dog coat. She covered Sencha with it, then helped Peter off the sled. He winced each time his leg bumped something.

“Do you have anything for pain?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered immediately. “Let me get it.” Why hadn’t she gotten some right away, back at Jonny Swede’s? Because she’d been thinking again.

She brought the Tylenol and the last two packets of food over to the tamped-down spot where Peter lay, nursing the stove flame. Together they checked his bandages. There was some blood spotting through from the worst part of the wound, where the shearing pin had dug especially deep, but the bandages had held up.

“How does it feel?” she asked.

“How do you think? Hurts like hell.”

“The Tylenol will help. I should have given you some earlier.”

“Yeah, you should have,” he said, coughing. “And I have a massive headache, too.”

She didn’t reply, just opened the bags of food and handed him the fork to stir them.

Now, while they were waiting for food, was the time to think, to plan. With a glance up at the snowless sky, she took out all the gear they had and spread it out on the tent ground sheet.

She sorted everything into piles. The batteries, the flashlight, which they had yet to use, the radio, and a can opener went in the one pile. A small handheld mirror, the now fairly useless sewing kit, and the first-aid kit went in another. A small, rubber-banded wad of money, water purification tablets, playing cards, and a roll of duct tape went in another. The sleeping bags and tent in yet another. The supply bag was almost empty now; it just held crayons and a whistle and some toothbrushes and toothpaste. She stuck her hand in and felt around, then drew out the covered tin she had grabbed from the fridge at the last minute. When she opened it, she felt her chest expand and let out a whoop of joy.

“Kimchi!”

“What?” said Peter. He was still stirring the melted snow water with the food packages in it. The sun had disappeared completely now, and the wind had risen, flickering the stove flame slightly.

“Food!” She made sure nothing was going to fall off the ground sheet, then headed to the fire. She opened the tin and showed him.

“It’s a kimchi stew. Korean food. I thought it was spaghetti.”

“It looks like sauerkraut or something. It smells disgusting.”

She grinned. “I know, right? It’s hot.”

“How can it be hot when it’s been sitting in the sled for four days?”

“No, spicy.”

“Oh, really?” said Peter. His dull eyes lightened a bit. “I love spicy food. And I’m going to need it, I think.”

“What do you mean?”

He gestured at his leg. “Shock. I’ve seen it. My uncle got a chainsaw bite once. He was fine, then halfway out to the truck, he just sort of keeled over.” His voice was measured and even. “Spicy food might wake me up. I’m really tired. And it’s getting colder.”

“You need to sleep. We need to get to Timmins.”

“Yeah.” He gestured to the kimchi. “Well, get it in ya, then.”