Snowhook by Jo Storm

“It’s better hot,” she said. “Here, I’ll clean up.”

She handed him the tin and he wedged it into the pot. Hannah repacked all the items in the supply bag. The wind gusted now, slipping under the edges of the ground sheet and lifting it.

Hannah looked over her shoulder and there it was again, the same storm she’d seen that morning funnelling toward them in great grey furrows. This was not going to be a regular storm, she could tell. These clouds were different, not the fat, snow-bearing slate-grey clouds of two days ago. These clouds roiled. They separated and merged again, mutating thus across the skyline, forming darker, uglier patches.

A storm like that would not be over in an hour. A storm like that could last for days.

She began to pack more quickly, still keenly aware of the packages beneath her fingers, the cold plastic of the radio, the lightened weight of the first-aid kit, which she kept near the top.

She called the dogs and hooked them to the line before walking over to the fire. She took out her fork as she made her way back to where Peter sat, still stirring the pot.

“Okay, let’s eat.”

“It’s not ready yet.”

“We have to eat fast and get going.”

“Well, you’ll be eating it half-frozen, then.”

“Fine. But hurry up.”

He made a face as if to say, How exactly can I hurry this? and kept stirring.

Hannah looked up at the sky again, then at the packed sled and the dogs. She felt tendrils of urgency gathering in her belly, mimicking the clouds above, making her feel slightly sick to her stomach. She took out her spoon and tried not to hover as Peter stirred the pot — their last meal.

“Does Jeb know you want to join the Army?”

“Yeah.”

“What does she think?”

“Depends. Sometimes she thinks it’s the best way for me to get out of here, like it was for her. Other times she says I should do anything but that.”

“I think you could be something else, too.”

“Nuh-unh.” He tipped one of the bags toward him and tasted its contents, frowning. “God, this isn’t ham and eggs, this is sawdust and cardboard.”

The wind gusted, yanking on the flame of their stove. Hannah watched it, hearing the hollow roar of the fuel as it sucked in more air than needed. “I think you’d be a good doctor,” she said.

She could tell he thought she was making fun of him. “A doctor, eh?” he said. He pulled the packets out of the water, then the tin of kimchi, setting them all carefully in the snow before turning off the stove.

“Yes, really.” She reached out and folded up the heat shield, which was already cool to the touch, as was the stove. She dumped out the pot, took all the gear to the sled, and put it away neatly. When she came back, Peter handed her one of the packets of food. She got the cardboard

and sawdust.

She looked at the open tin of kimchi, which was steaming. She hadn’t seen red in so long that it was almost alarming to look at the bits of hot red pepper.

“Let’s eat this first,” said Peter.

“Be care

ful, it’s really spicy.”

“Jeb and I used to put hot sauce on cornflakes,” he said. “I love spicy food.”

“Hot sauce on breakfast? That’s disgusting.”

He shrugged and they ate the kimchi in silence. The heat of the spices travelled right down her throat and into her belly, and she grabbed her bottle and choked down some water.