Ice Dogs by Terry Lynn Johnson Page B

dents that look like a plastic egg carton. I can tell which circle was Bean’s; his metabolism cranks out so much energy he’d sink to China if we stayed here long enough. I worry about his weight, and wish I had brought extra fat for him.
    I wind up the picket line and store it back in the sled, then step on the brake and motion for Chris to get in. The dogs’ frantic screams ignite the air around us. Chris spastically trips and falls into the sled.
    â€œReady? All right!” We charge down the trail for about thirty yards and then it becomes obvious our travel today will be slow. The snow from yesterday’s blizzard is so deep, the dogs have to jump like weasels. And the trail is really only a vague indent. I should’ve known this, but I was too busy showing off for Chris to think about it. I’ll be glad when I drop this guy off at his house.

11
    I STOP THE TEAM . “Y OU’RE TOO HEAVY . Get out of the sled and help me back here.”
    â€œI’d rather not.” But he climbs out and stands beside me. His face is tight and I feel a twinge of remorse for snapping at him. He seems defenseless, scared.
    â€œWhat do I do?”
    â€œYou stand on that runner. I’ll stand on this one. Hold on to the handlebar . . . it’s like skiing, but you get to hang on.” I have to yell above the dogs’ frustrated barks. They don’t like to stop when they’ve just started. I pull the hook again. “All right, Beanie!”
    Chris looks frozen with fear, but after a few moments of smooth riding, his easy charm returns and he flashes me a wide grin. “Hey, this is fun.”
    â€œFor now. They’ll slow down soon and we’ll have to pedal with one foot, or run beside the sled.”
    In fact, for most of the morning, no one is running. We plod through the snow, climb over broken and uprooted trees, and jockey the sled around tight corners. I keep hoping that around the next corner, the trail will widen out and I’ll recognize where we are. But around each corner is more tangled mess and I curse my luck.
    This has to be the thickest brush in Alaska. I sincerely wish we lived in an area that has cell coverage. With that thought, another rushes in.
    Mom.
    She’s got to be freaking with the dogs and me not coming home last night. She’ll know I’m out, but she won’t know
where.
    The more I think about it, the more ill I feel imagining her at home alone. My heart aches as I recall a year ago last January. When we both sat at home—waiting. I think of her fragile show of cheerfulness, how it could buckle with this added pressure. She probably got home last night tired, expecting dinner. She would have been annoyed at first, then, as it got later, the cold dread would have crept in. I blink several times. Even with the anger that has boiled in my gut for over a year, I still don’t want to see her hurt.
    But I would never forgive her.
    After Dad died, I heard her talking to Nana on the phone. She kept her voice low but I avoided the squeaky spot on the floor and crept close to her room. That’s how I know Nana was trying to convince her to move back to Seattle. Mom used to be a city girl before she met Dad at a course they both took in the city.
    Dad liked to improve his mind, always reading books and taking classes. He was probably the smartest fishing guide in Alaska. He convinced Mom she could work as a real estate agent in Spruce River, since he obviously couldn’t trap or guide in the city. I don’t think Nana ever let go of her grudge over that. Grandpa died years ago, and she’s alone down there.
    Mom hasn’t really loved Alaska. Not like Dad and I do. I’ve been to the city to visit so I can tell it’s not the place for me. Too many people, too much noise, too many cars on the roads. Not enough dog trails.
    â€œYou think we’re close?” Chris asks, breaking me out of my