“Does it hurt?” she asked.
“Yes. Stop asking.”
“I have to ask. Does it hurt more, or less than before?”
H
e pulled off his toque and pushed back his tangled hair. It was so greasy now that it stood straight up, flopping over in big mounds at the top.
“About the same. Maybe less — but I need more Tylenol. And I’m starving.”
“Starving is good.”
“I know that, bossy britches,” he said. “That’s why I’m telling you.”
“That isn’t good, though,” she said. Below the wound, his foot was a chalky white. All the blood was pooling near the wound, and not enough was getting down to his foot. She moved down so that his foot was between her knees. She looked up at him.
“This is probably going to hurt.”
He bared his teeth and blew out a short breath through his nose. “Wouldn’t be fun if it didn’t, eh?”
She picked up his foot and began to rub it, using as gentle a motion as she could. Peter shifted and wiped sweat off his face, hissing as the blood began to move into his foot. She knew he must be in real pain since he didn’t even swear, just grunted and hissed as the blood began to circulate and the white skin began to colour.
She massaged his foot for a long time, moving her fingers in small, gentle circles, paying extra attention to his toes. It took a long time for his baby toe to start getting some colour, but eventually it did. When there were no more white patches anywhere that she could see, she was relieved.
“Is it okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, no frostbite.”
“Whew.”
She put his foot down. “I’ll grab the first-aid kit and let the dogs out.”
He nodded, pulling off his other sock, and began to inspect his foot.
Hannah told the dogs to stay, unzipped the tent and the vestibule, and clamoured out.
She squinted as she emerged into the sunlight. The blizzard had passed; the sky was bright blue, with only the pale early morning sun marring it. The sunlight hit the quarry’s sloped sides and flat planes and turned the pit into a giant mirror, bouncing light back and forth across the face of the snowpack so brightly that after a few seconds, even squinting, Hannah saw black spots in front of her eyes. She ducked back into the tent.
“Holy crap, it’s bright out there,” she said.
“Thank God,” said Peter. He had finished changing his socks and was putting his grimy woollen pants on.
“I can barely see.”
He tapped his glasses. “Tinted. Not a problem for me.”
She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him.
“The Inuit make snow goggles from leather,” he said.
“Yeah, let me just pull my trusty polar bear hide out of my pocket, genius,” she said.
“I’m just telling you there are other things you can do, smartass.”
She looked around the tent, surveying their rumpled sleeping bags and stuff sacks, her discarded socks and scarf. She yanked her toque down low, then wrapped the scarf around the top of her head, over her face, and down to her neck, tucking the ends in and leaving just the barest slit for her eyes.
“How’s that?” she asked.