CHAPTER 15
Evander
No time. No time.
I run to the ATV, Phoebe in my arms. She’s breathing, but her breath is coming shallow and fast. I know exactly what to do and I’ll do it all while driving off-road through a blinding blizzard.
Because that’s what’s required.
I move fast. Every movement precise. No wasted effort. There’s no need to think creatively—this is a time to rely on what I know, what I’ve been trained to do, and how I’ve been trained to do it.
It’s automatic.
Emergency space blanket grabbed from the trunk locker.
Instant heat packet smacked against the handlebar and activated.
I hold Phoebe in my lap. I have just minutes before she’s gone. Minutes to find shelter while I actively do whatever I can to begin to increase her core body temperature, at least a little bit.
Step one: slowly raise body temperature.
Step two: acquire shelter.
Step three: strip off every inch of wet clothes.
In that order. And fast.
She’s limp and her eyes are half closed.
Her lips are blue. I turn on the ignition and lean her against the handlebars while I unzip my insulated coveralls, yank them down off my torso, and pull off the three layers I’m wearing underneath—thick wool sweater, cotton hoodie, moisture-wicking, long-sleeve T-shirt.
I shove these items down the front of my pants to keep everything out of the way for a moment.
The snow is coming down in sheets. If I don’t move fast enough, I’ll get too wet for this to work. If I get too wet, my body temperature will drop. And that’s the only thing that will keep Phoebe alive.
It's got to be below zero out here with winds near forty knots. That’s fucking crazy.
I drape the Mylar blanket over both of us, then take off her helmet, goggles, and gloves.
I unzip her coverall and rip off everything that's under it—sweater, cotton sweatshirt, cotton T-shirt, silk thermal underwear top, bra. I ball everything up into the helmet and shove it in the attached side saddlebag. I’ll strip off the bottom half once we find shelter.
Her head, neck, and trunk are what matters now. Brain and vital organs. Extremities come later—if she’s still alive.
I use my moisture-wicking base layer to quickly dry her hair, then I wrap the fabric tight around her head.
I wrap my T-shirt and wool sweater over her back and shoulders.
The heat pack gets shoved down into my waistband.
It can’t directly make contact with her skin, but whatever heat it radiates upward between our bodies will help.
And that’s it.
It's all I have to offer her.
My body heat.
My know-how.
My sense of purpose.
I pull her tight into the front of my body, skin on skin, jolting at the touch of clammy, icy flesh against mine. I tuck her head into the crook of my shoulder, slip her arms into the sleeves of my snowsuit, and pull the hood of my shirt over her head. I then try to rouse her.
“Phoebe. Put your arms around me. You need to hold on tight.”
No response.
So I swaddle her in the space blanket, then pull it tight around both of us, shielding her from the wind while allowing me to drive.
Drive where, I’ve got no fucking idea.
But I have to get there. Now.
I take off.
“Phoebe!” No response.
I do feel her breathing. I think I feel an erratic pulse where her throat touches my skin. I hear her make a gasping sound. And she’s shivering so hard against me that my own teeth are rattling.
There’s no daylight. This storm is a black hole. I have no idea where I am or whose land I’m on. But that’s all beside the point because I can’t see a damn thing.
But I either find somewhere to hunker down or Phoebe dies.
I think of my mother. When we were boys, Dad would tell us that Mom hadn’t left us. She was always looking down on us from heaven, he said, and if things ever seem hopeless, all we have to do is ask her for a helping hand.
“All right, Ma,” I whisper. “Now’s the time. If you could ever help a boy out, this is the moment. Please don’t let Phoebe die.”
Not ten seconds later, I’m blinking furiously behind my goggles because… am I hallucinating? It’s almost as if I can make out the slope of a roofline, straight ahead.
No fucking way.
I laugh out loud.
“Phoebe!”
I don’t give a fuck what this thing is—shearing hut, lean-to, equipment building, outhouse—if it’s got any kind of roof and at least three walls, it’ll be far better than what we’re working with right now.
It’s coming into view.
“Phoebe!”
She stirs. I hear a squeak that might be a groan or a cry. She’s still alive. I cannot believe it, but she’s alive.
This girl is tough.
I pull closer. I see a door. Walls. Glass windows with only a few broken panes. This is an actual structure. I even see a river rock chimney.
To my eyes, it’s the Palace of Versailles.
I turn off the ignition and close my eyes for a half second. “Thanks, Mom,” I say.
And I’m back on automatic pilot.
I run to the door, Phoebe still clutched tight to my chest. I make a mental note of the wood I see stacked in an attached outhouse just left of the front door.
The door is locked, so I kick it in, careful to do as little damage as possible since it will need to function.
Yes, Phoebe is alive, but I’ll have to move fast if I want to keep her that way.
It’s dark in here. Smells like wet dog. Or that could just be the two of us. My eyes acclimate enough that I make out an old couch and footstool, a fireplace, a rag rug, and what looks like a dry sink and a woodstove for cooking. I even see cabinets and a table.
I glance up as I head to the sofa. Only a few specks of pale daylight are peeking through the old cedar roof, but snowflakes are making their way down to us.
I only hope the structure holds under the weight of this snowfall.
I untangle Phoebe from the sleeves of my coveralls and lay her on the couch. I run back out into the blizzard, allowing myself no more than twenty seconds to grab her clothes and some emergency supplies from the trunk locker and saddlebag. And then I run right back in.
I slam the door shut and shove a wooden chair up under the doorknob. Seems I did a fairly good job of busting the locking mechanism.
Phoebe’s eyes are half open, but she’s disoriented. That’s okay. Disoriented isn’t unconscious or dead, so I’ll take it.
But holy shit. If it’s ten below outside, it’s a balmy zero in here. This is nowhere near habitable.
I rip off my clothes.
Phoebe’s eyes widen.