Snowbound

have to get a tow truck up here.

Maybe it was because he’d felt edgy all morning, with

the knowledge that something he didn’t want to happen

was inevitable, but standing up there in the snow with the

boys, studying the van, triggered a scene in his head too

vivid to be called a recollection, but too brief to qualify

as a flashback. It was like one of those ten-second videos

a person could take with a regular digital camera.

He and Diego had their heads under the hood of the

truck, which had lagged behind the convoy and broken

down. Iraqis gathered, probably just curious, but one never

knew. The couple of guys facing down the crowd had

their M-16s pointing at the ground, but out of the corner

of his eye John saw Larson’s hand holding the gun, his

fingers twitching as if he were typing a coded message.

John shook his head slightly, and the vision vanished.

It had been a meaningless scene; someone at the back

of the convoy had noticed they were missing and a

Stryker had roared back to recover them. Some kid had

thrown a rock; John remembered it banging off the

truck’s welded armor. He’d said quietly, “Easy,” to

Larson, maybe because of those restless fingers. But

that was it. They’d figured out what was wrong with the

truck and had driven off. Ninety percent of the scenes

that flashed into his head were like this one, nothing

he’d normally recall. Just pulled out of his memory

by something—a smell, a movement, a noise—and

suddenly there, as if he lived in two dimensions.

That disturbed him more than anything, the idea that

he just couldn’t seem to leave Iraq and was perpetually

re-enlisting without conscious volition.

But he shook this minor flashback off. They weren’t

coming as often anymore. “Healing” meant he was a

work in process, not cured.

For several minutes, he and the boys threw around

ideas, Troy seeming to have the most experience with

cars. Then they headed back down to the lodge. The

boys raced ahead, their shouts trailing in the thin, cold

air, while he took his time.

When he reported the news about the van to Fiona,

she nodded resignedly.

“I had a feeling backing out wasn’t going to be an

option.”

“The road crew might be able to wrap a chain around

the axle and pull it out.”

While they waited, she threw herself into a frenzy of

laundry and cleaning, driving the kids to help with the

first hint of sharpness he’d heard from her.

Unaware he was within earshot, she told three of

the girls, “Mr. Fallon has been really nice about

getting stuck with us, and we’re not going to pay him

back by leaving dirty linens or bathrooms that need

scrubbing.”

“But what if we end up staying another night?” one

of them complained.

“Then we make the beds up again tonight and wash

the sheets and towels again tomorrow. Boys!” she called

down the hall. “Do you have those beds stripped?”

John heated tomato rice soup and made a pile of

sandwiches, keeping an eye on her as she passed back

and forth through the kitchen carrying heaps of bedding

and borrowed clothing, dirty going one way, warm and

folded the other.

While they ate, she said, “I’m sorry, we don’t know

which of the clothes are yours and which from the lost

and found. We’re just piling everything on the sofa.”

“No problem.”

“I hope we’ve folded the linens the way you like. If

you want us to make up the beds…”

He shook his head. “I’ll do it when guests are scheduled.”

“How do you know when people are coming?”

Dieter asked. “Without a phone?”

“I have a cell phone. Sometimes I can make a call

from here. Otherwise, there’s a spot down river that

usually works.”

“But how do people make reservations?” the boy

persisted. “Do they have to leave a message and wait

until you call?”

He smiled. “No, the real estate office in Danson—

that’s the next town west of here—handles my reservations. They get lodge e-mail and answer my reservation line. I check in with them a couple of times a week.”