without my needing to set the container near the fire. Again, I gulped it. Again, the water never got near my throat. I refilled the container, placed it near the fire, and put a few more sticks on the flames.
That became my pattern. When my mouth and throat were moist enough, I pulled a plastic bag of peanuts and raisins from my knapsack, chewing each mouthful thoroughly, making them last. Worrying about Jason, hating Petey, I stared at the fire.
19
I vaguely remember going out to clear a drift from the smoke hole and to find more fuel. Otherwise, everything blurred. A couple of times when I woke, the flames had died out. On those occasions, all that kept me from freezing to death was the heat that the boulders had absorbed.
When I noticed that the pressure bandage around my left forearm was completely pink from the bleeding under it, I didn’t react with dismay—the arm seemed to belong to someone else. Even when I saw sunlight beyond the branches and drifts at the entrance to my shelter, I felt oddly apart from it. Eventually, I discovered that an entire day had passed, but while I was trapped in the shelter, time hardly moved.
Probably I’d have lain in a stupor until energy totally failed me, if it hadn’t been for water dripping through the roof. The cold drops struck my eyelids, shocking me. The sunlight was painfully bright. I moved my head. The drops fell into my mouth, tasting vaguely of turpentine from the resin on the pine branches. I gagged and spat the water out, sitting up to reach a dry spot.
More drops splashed around me, raising smoke from the almost—dead fire. Coughing, I grabbed my knapsack and stumbled outside, kneeing through the branches and drifts at the entrance. The heat of the sun was luxurious. Snow fell from trees. Rivulets started to form. Standing in the melting snow, my feet and shins became wet again, but it was a different kind of wet, the sun warming me, so that I didn’t shiver. From the sun’s angle in the east, I judged that the time was midmorning. As much as my body didn’t want to move, I knew that if I didn’t take advantage of the improved weather, I might never have another chance.
I took a long look back at the shelter. It was loose and flimsy, as if a child had put it together, and yet I’d never been prouder of anything I’d designed.
I started down. Light reflecting off the snow lanced my eyes. By the time the sun was directly overhead, much of the snow had melted, the ground turning to mud as I crossed the first meadow. Still, the road remained hidden, and with little to guide me, all I could do was keep heading downward, aiming toward breaks in the trees where the road possibly went through them.
I don’t remember reaching Highway 9, or collapsing there, or being found by a passing motorist. Apparently, that was at sunset. I woke up in a small medical clinic in a town called Frisco.
By then, a state trooper had been summoned. He leaned over the bed and wanted to know what had happened to me. I later found out that it took him twenty minutes to get a coherent account from me. I kept screaming for Jason, as if my son was within arm’s reach and I could help him.
The doctor stitched my left forearm. He disinfected and bandaged my hands, which he was worried might have frostbite.
The state trooper returned from talking on the phone. “Mr. Denning, the Denver police sent a patrol car to your house. The lights were off. No one answered the doorbell. When they aimed a flashlight through a garage window, they saw your Ford Expedition.”
“In the garage? That doesn’t make sense. Why would Petey have gone back to the house?” The awful implication hit me. “
Jesus.
”
I tried to scramble out of bed. It took both the doctor and the state trooper to stop me.
“The officers broke a window and entered your house. They searched it thoroughly. It’s deserted. Mr. Denning, do you have any other vehicles?”
“What difference does …” My head pounded.
That became my pattern. When my mouth and throat were moist enough, I pulled a plastic bag of peanuts and raisins from my knapsack, chewing each mouthful thoroughly, making them last. Worrying about Jason, hating Petey, I stared at the fire.
19
I vaguely remember going out to clear a drift from the smoke hole and to find more fuel. Otherwise, everything blurred. A couple of times when I woke, the flames had died out. On those occasions, all that kept me from freezing to death was the heat that the boulders had absorbed.
When I noticed that the pressure bandage around my left forearm was completely pink from the bleeding under it, I didn’t react with dismay—the arm seemed to belong to someone else. Even when I saw sunlight beyond the branches and drifts at the entrance to my shelter, I felt oddly apart from it. Eventually, I discovered that an entire day had passed, but while I was trapped in the shelter, time hardly moved.
Probably I’d have lain in a stupor until energy totally failed me, if it hadn’t been for water dripping through the roof. The cold drops struck my eyelids, shocking me. The sunlight was painfully bright. I moved my head. The drops fell into my mouth, tasting vaguely of turpentine from the resin on the pine branches. I gagged and spat the water out, sitting up to reach a dry spot.
More drops splashed around me, raising smoke from the almost—dead fire. Coughing, I grabbed my knapsack and stumbled outside, kneeing through the branches and drifts at the entrance. The heat of the sun was luxurious. Snow fell from trees. Rivulets started to form. Standing in the melting snow, my feet and shins became wet again, but it was a different kind of wet, the sun warming me, so that I didn’t shiver. From the sun’s angle in the east, I judged that the time was midmorning. As much as my body didn’t want to move, I knew that if I didn’t take advantage of the improved weather, I might never have another chance.
I took a long look back at the shelter. It was loose and flimsy, as if a child had put it together, and yet I’d never been prouder of anything I’d designed.
I started down. Light reflecting off the snow lanced my eyes. By the time the sun was directly overhead, much of the snow had melted, the ground turning to mud as I crossed the first meadow. Still, the road remained hidden, and with little to guide me, all I could do was keep heading downward, aiming toward breaks in the trees where the road possibly went through them.
I don’t remember reaching Highway 9, or collapsing there, or being found by a passing motorist. Apparently, that was at sunset. I woke up in a small medical clinic in a town called Frisco.
By then, a state trooper had been summoned. He leaned over the bed and wanted to know what had happened to me. I later found out that it took him twenty minutes to get a coherent account from me. I kept screaming for Jason, as if my son was within arm’s reach and I could help him.
The doctor stitched my left forearm. He disinfected and bandaged my hands, which he was worried might have frostbite.
The state trooper returned from talking on the phone. “Mr. Denning, the Denver police sent a patrol car to your house. The lights were off. No one answered the doorbell. When they aimed a flashlight through a garage window, they saw your Ford Expedition.”
“In the garage? That doesn’t make sense. Why would Petey have gone back to the house?” The awful implication hit me. “
Jesus.
”
I tried to scramble out of bed. It took both the doctor and the state trooper to stop me.
“The officers broke a window and entered your house. They searched it thoroughly. It’s deserted. Mr. Denning, do you have any other vehicles?”
“What difference does …” My head pounded.
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