A hundred more feet and she was standing beside the carcass. She lifted her pack, carried it to the rock, and, leaning against the rock, slid her arms beneath the shoulder straps. She secured the hip belt and sternum strap. Then she stood, transferring the weight of the pack onto her back. But with the exertion, she felt the cut open again, and the blood trickled from the crown of her head through her hair and down to her left ear. Once more she applied pressure, and continued to do so while she walked around the rock. The snow was accumulating quickly and prevented her from seeing her tracks. Just ahead was the meadow. On the other side she should be able to pick up her trail and make the steep climb to the ridge. She was still light-headed, and worried about the climb. She stopped and drank at least eight ounces of water from the hydration reservoir in her pack, and thought about the Advil she had back at her tent. She should eat something, but she did not want to remove her pack again or waste what little daylight was left, and so she moved on, hoping for some shelter from the snow once she was in the dense spread of trees. Maybe there she would be able to find her tracks.
Upon crossing the meadow, the wind whipped through her layers. Carrying the weight of her pack with the elk quarter would be good for her, as the exertion would warm her body. But her head felt tepid and wet, and when she reached to check the gash, certain it was still bleeding, her fingertips pressed against her damp hair. She was no longer wearing her hat, and she could not recall when it had come off. Perhaps when she’d entered the meadow the hat had gotten snagged on a branch. Again she applied pressure to the wound, but this time she kept moving. She could not turn back, and wished she had brought the blaze orange hat she’d left at the truck. She was still feeling light-headed, which would worsen if the bleeding continued. And without her hat, her head was already becoming soaked from the snow. She would lose too much body heat should she stop, and how much farther until she would be at the truck? She tried to pick up her pace.
She was now at the far edge of the clearing. She entered the timber and looked for her tracks but could find none, and she wondered if in part the snow and wind had erased her path. Then she thought of the rain and how hard it had fallen. There would be no tracks. The rain would have washed them away hours ago. And she had been on her hands and knees much of the time. She continued on, confident she was moving in the right direction. She thought of the deadfall she had crossed over earlier and the steep terrain. Everything looked familiar.
Though Amy Raye did not have a watch on, she had to have walked more than an hour. She should have come upon her quiver. The taste of panic coated her tongue. With each minute that passed, she was less sure of herself. Perhaps her quiver was nearby, but with the snowfall and these thick woods, she’d have a difficult time identifying the marker, and to circle back would only waste time, and dusk was quickly approaching. More than once she’d almost slipped and lost her footing. The terrain was rockier than she had remembered. She stopped occasionally to take a sip of water, to catch her breath. She was carrying up to eighty pounds, and every muscle in her body felt stiff and ached. She thought of shedding the elk quarter, but something else was taking hold of her, an awareness of her surroundings, and the cold, and the approaching nightfall. She’d relied on her adrenaline, had attacked these woods, trying to make good time, and now with each step, she knew just how lost she had become.
COUGAR
PRU
As I drove away from the command station, I felt the letdown from the search, as well as the fatigue, and yet with each mile closer to Rio Mesa, something different began to take hold of me, something large and warm and comforting. I tried to call Joseph, though I knew he would be in the locker room getting ready for the game. When I got his voice mail, I left a message. “I’ll be there,” I said. “Rio Mesa against the number two team. I think I’ll bet ten on five.”
Joseph and I had always made bets on the games. He played cornerback. Whoever’s bet was the closest to the number of tackles he made had to pay up. I paid by taking Joseph out to eat. Joseph paid by fixing dinner. If we tied, we ordered out. “Two dinners on four tackles,” Joseph had said the week before. I had bet on six tackles, and by the end of the game, Joseph had brought seven of the opponent’s offensive carriers down.
This would be a big game. Rio Mesa was supposed to make it to state this year. Joseph was one of only three sophomores who started.
When I turned onto the driveway, Kona, who was riding in the back, immediately stood up. His tail was wagging; the tags on his collar were clinking together.
There was a snow shovel leaning against the house. I cleared the steps to the porch. The town had gotten only four to six inches so far, but the snow was still coming down. On the porch, I removed my boots and hung up my jacket by the door next to a coal shovel that I used to knock icicles from the roof. I stepped inside, set the keys on the counter, and glanced at the clock on the stove. A little after six. If I hurried, I could get a shower and still make it in time for the kickoff.
The water burned hot against my skin, bringing my blood to the surface, warming my cold bones and muscles. I dried off quickly and dressed in a pair of jeans, a thick sweater, my down jacket, and gloves. I picked up my keys off the counter. “You have to stay,” I told Kona. “You be a good boy.”
As I drove to the school, I pictured Joseph, his slight bowlegged stance along the sidelines while the offensive team was in the game, the way he would glance back at the stands every so often to see if I was there. I’d be stepping onto the field with him at the halftime ceremony, when the players honored their parents.
When I got out of the truck, I heard the band playing and people cheering. I jogged across the plowed pavement.