Snowhook by Jo Storm

She stumbled, her legs screaming in frozen agony, but she ignored them, she ignored everything but the glinting snowhook and the next thing. She lurched along the ice, moving across the thickest ridge, pulled the hook up, and raced back, calling the dogs as she ran.

“Nook, Rudy, Sencha — get up! Get up!” she hollered. The three dogs stood, alarmed and confused; she was calling them to go one way, but running the opposite. Nook pointed her head toward the shore, then back to Hannah.

“Nook!” yelled Hannah. “Nook, get up now! Get up! Sencha, go! Get up, go go go!” She threw herself back down at the mouth of the water and passed the line of the snowhook through the end of the rope, tying it off in a slipknot, still yelling at the dogs to start.

Nook, still in her place as wheel dog, shook herself off quickly and started forward, but the other dogs did not understand and did not pull, and soon she stopped.

Hannah grabbed Peter’s arm; he had almost no grip left, and his lips had a bluish tinge to them. He looked sleepy, lolling in the water like it was the height of summer. Hypothermia was setting in.

“Get up, guys, let’s go let’s go!” yelled Hannah. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a brown blob move forward: Bogey, padding out to stand a little in front of the gangline, his cut traces dangling down, useless.

But he could still lead. All the other dogs need is someone to follow. A leader.

“Bogey!” she yelled. She put all her remaining strength into her voice. “Bogey, good boy, that’s right, Boge, get up, get up, let’s go, get up!”

And he moved. A few steps, then some more, then he broke into a trot, aiming for the treeline and the distant trail. Nook followed immediately, and Sencha, happy to be moving away from the water, and finally Rudy, pulling hard because that was his job.

The gangline tightened and the sled began to move. Hannah wedged her arm over the edge and into the water, putting her other arm around Peter and holding on, trying to act as a buffer against the hard sides of the ice. She set her knees and pulled and twisted, and the sled moved and so did Peter. He woke up and began to pull himself weakly, using her back as support.

His bad leg came up last, scraping over the edge of the hole, and then they were out and on the thick, safe ice near the shore. She pulled the knot on the rope free with numb fingers and set the snowhook, cramming it into a small crack and calling the dogs to halt.

Hannah and Peter lay on their backs, wheezing and coughing. The sun shone down with a freezing grin, but at least there was no wind. Her lips were raw, her hands felt like and looked like hamburger, and her arm was badly scraped now from Peter’s body dragging it across the fissured ice as he was hauled up.

Peter turned and lay face down, breathing heavily. Finally, he coughed again and spat up some phlegm.

“Hannah,” he said.

“What?”

“That. Sucked.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Hannah lay on her back, staring up into the sky. “Get up,” she said, willing herself as much as Peter to follow the instruction.

“Just gimme a minute,” he said.

“Peter, we have to get up. We need to get warm.”

“I just need to rest a minute.” His voice was still slurred, and his blue lips barely moved when he spoke.

“Get up,” she repeated.

With agonizing difficulty, Ha

nnah sat up. Neither of them had their coat on, and both of them were soaking wet and about to freeze to death.

No amount of common ground is going to get us out of this one, Mrs. Dowling, she thought.

But in a flash, she heard Mrs. Dowling’s I always know the answer voice: “With the right kind of encouragement, a good leader and their team can overcome any obstacle.”

Hannah almost laughed out loud. What kind of encouragement could possibly help right now?

“Peter, come on, get up!”

“Shut up,” he slurred. “Ashhole.”

Encouragement, my ass, thought Hannah. Wanna see some leadership, Mrs. Dowling? Watch this.