Snowhook by Jo Storm

The man nodded. “Your aunt, eh? Jenny, is it? She’s the veteran.”

“How did you know?” asked Hannah.

“It’s a small town,” he replied. “And who are you?”

“Hannah. Ha-neul Williams.”

The man whistled. “Scott and George’s kids. Your mom’s sick?”

“Yes, she needs insulin.”

“Oh, that’s not good,” said the man immediately. “By Jesus, kids, you’ve been outside all this time? You need something warm in ya, I’m betting. Are you hungry?”

Hannah and Peter laughed together this time. “Nope,” said Peter. “Want some stew?” He held out his bowl.

The man looked at Peter, who was still laughing and coughing, and then at Hannah.

“And what’s your name?”

“Me? Oh shoot, I’m Darren. Hubbard. Darren Hubbard.”

Hannah glanced over the dogs. At his movement, they had turned and now sat watching him. None of them had a hard stare that said you don’t belong — danger! Now and then, one of them would lift their nose to quest for scents, but their postures were relaxed. Nook met her eyes and then looked back to the edge of the light, where the trail continued. This man was no threat, and she was not interested in him or his machine. She wanted to run.

Hannah turned to Peter. “Do you know Mr. Hubbard?”

“No, but I’ve heard of him. You’re a mechanic, right?” he asked the man.

The man shook his head slightly. “Small engines, lawnmowers and stuff. I’m retired. I work at Len’s, down by the cop shop.”

“I think we’d better go with Mr. Hubbard,” she said to Peter. “You need dry clothes, and a hospital.”

Peter nodded.

She turned back to the man. “We’ll go with you,” she said. She inclined her head to indicate the team and the sled. “And the dogs, too.”

He reached up and took off a glove and scratched the side of his head, looking at her with an odd expression.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Fourteen.”

“Fourteen going on forty,” he said. She remembered that her father had said that about her, too. But Mr. Hubbard hadn’t said it the same way her father had; he said it like it was something to be proud of.

Hannah helped Mr. Hubbard to gather Peter up and put him on the back of the snowmobile. Peter swayed on the seat, grinning and still holding his empty bowl. She took it gently from him.

“I’m going to be a doctor,” he said to Mr. Hubbard, grabbing his arm to keep balanced on the long, plastic-

covered seat of the snowmobile. He had his arm slung around Hannah, as well, and she felt him squeeze her shoulders. His face was flushed, but not with embarrassment; she could feel waves of heat coming off him, and his eyes were unusually bright. It wasn’t just the reflecting firelight.

“He has a fever,” she said to the man.

Mr. Hubbard looked at him, took his glove off, and felt Peter’s head. “Poor kid.” He got Peter settled with the emergency blanket around him and a heavy wool one over that, leaning him against the small seat post at the back of the snowmobile. Then, by the light of the dying fire, he helped Hannah take down the tent and pack it into the basket with their other gear.

He eyed the dogsled, the gangline straight with the dogs sitting or lying quietly, ready to go. Sencha’s white and brown flanks stood out starkly against the thick gradient fur of the huskies. He craned his neck a little to take in Bogey’s square haunches, his dark-brown fur almost lost in the darkness. “Wow. Two stringers?” He meant the house dogs; stringers were bad dogs, dogs that didn’t like to work, didn’t know what to do.

“They’re not stringers,” she said. “They’re a team. They’re good.”

“Okay,” he said, scratching his neck again. “Well, I’ll take you and Peter to my place so we can get to the hospital, and then I’ll come back for them, okay?”