Glancing in back, she saw that he was lying motionless under several blankets and a thermal cover, a stocking cap pulled low over his brow, all the while drifting in and out of consciousness. She was worried about a concussion, or worse, but what did she know? Despite what the patrolman might believe, she was no doctor.
If only Frank were fully conscious and aware, he could have assessed his condition himself.
She turned on the heater, full blast, but with the window gone, most of the hot air dissipated almost immediately; the rest simply melted the snow and ice piling up in the front of the ambulance until she found frigid water sloshing around among the foot pedals. Still, without the heat on, she felt that her hands, even in the gloves, might freeze.
Once the highway turned inland, the evergreens grew thicker, rising on both sides of the highway and affording some modicum of protection from the wind. They also helped her to see where the road was going, and she was able to pick up speed. She was even able to spot the occasional road sign—usually warning of some treacherous stretch ahead—but sometimes telling her how much farther it was to Nome. She’d have enough gas, she could see that, but keeping the ambulance from skidding off into a snowdrift, or colliding with some nocturnal creature out foraging, could prove deadly. She personally knew of three people in Port Orlov who had died from exposure, and one of them was an Inuit—Geordie’s great uncle—and he had lived there his entire life. His hungry malamute had wandered into the Yardarm, alone, four days later.
As she huddled over the wheel, pressing on toward Nome on her own desperate mission, she was reminded of the other malamute, the famous Balto, who had carried the lifesaving serum there almost a hundred years before. She thought of the terrible hardships those dogs and mushers had endured, and even as she suffered a bout of coughing herself, she tried to bolster her spirit with their own bravery and commitment. If they could do it on open sleds, across impossible terrain, why should she be questioning her chances? She had a car, albeit a lousy one. She had a heater—even if it was turning everything to porridge—and she had a doctor on board, despite the fact that he was injured and mostly unconscious. She should have had it made.
The pep rally didn’t help as much as she hoped it would.
She turned on the radio, and a country-western station kicked in, despite the storm. She didn’t really follow that kind of music, so the singer, crooning about a girl who got away, wasn’t familiar to her. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was the connection to civilization, the voice from the void, the company it provided, as she drove on through the darkness and the freezing cold. It was a mental lifeline, and one she clung to … especially as she felt her own energy slipping.
How much time passed by like that, she didn’t know. She was so concentrated on following the road, keeping track of those elusive reflectors posted along the sides, that she was becoming snow-blind. And more than once, without knowing it, she must have closed her eyes for a few seconds, because when she looked up again something in her field of vision had changed—a sign was already rushing past her, or the road had started to bend through a grove of trees. She’d hastily wipe the snow from her goggles, pound her arms to get the blood flowing, and tell herself in a loud voice, “Wake up, Nika—wake up!”
The ambulance was so old it had no GPS, and even the odometer was stuck, so it was hard to keep track of how much farther she had to go. She had to rely upon the infrequent signage. But there was no point in worrying about it, she thought, and less point in turning back. “You’ll get there when you get there,” her grandmother used to say. Back then, she’d thought it was pretty dumb. Right now, it seemed like the height of wisdom.
Taylor Swift—now there was someone she did recognize—came on, singing an old hit she’d written about some guy who’d treated her badly (who was it, Nika tried to recall, the tabloids said there were so many) when she was surprised by a voice from the ambulance bay saying, “Enough … enough.”
She quickly turned her head to see Frank stirring on the gurney. The covers were still tucked around him, the stocking hat dusted with snow.
“No more … country music.”
His voice came out like a frog, croaking, but it was music to her ears. He angled his head so that their eyes could meet—deep bruises were already forming all around his sockets, making it look like he’d just been punched—and she fumbled to turn off the radio.
“Are you okay?” she asked, alternating between looking at Frank and watching the road.
“Where are we?”
“On the way to the hospital, in Nome.”
He closed his eyes, as if mulling it over.
“Should I pull over? Do you need my help?”
Opening them again, he said, “What happened, at the bridge?”
Unsure where to begin, she started to describe the patrol car’s blocking the entrance, but he shook his head slightly and said, “That much I remember. I meant the Vanes.”