Cut

Waking

I open my eyes. More white, more pain. My head is pounding and lights are popping in my vision. Every single bone in my body is aching, my left foot feels like it's about to rot off.

I blink. It's not snow I'm looking at. It's a ceiling. I'm covered with white blankets, and next to me is a warm, white, furry—

Shit!

I try to inch away, but my body doesn't do what I want it to do. Ears prick. A black nose leaves a wet trail on my cheek. A tongue goes slop. With a squeal, I push the dog off my bed. It does a whoomp on the floor and then puts its snout on the mattress looking insulted, as if I tried to kill it and not the other way around.

'What the...' I say.

'Oof!' it replies.

I've never had a conversation with a dog, and until a pack tried to eat Runner and me, I hadn't even seen one. That reminds me...

Something in the room moves, and it's not the beast. My eyeballs seem to be stuck in glue, because it's hard to change focus.

I find a boy sitting in a corner of the room. No, not a boy, a young man. He holds a rifle. His eyebrows are pulled low, and his expression is dark. 'Hey,' I try. 'Where's R...the man I came with?' The stranger only stares at me. My question must have been unclear. 'I dragged a guy wrapped up in a tent. Do you know where he is?' My voice gains in pitch and panic, but all I get in return is hateful staring.

He doesn't want to break the news. I know it. Runner is dead. Or dying? With a cry, I force my legs to move out of the bed. 'Where is he?' I bark, but I get no answer. When I notice I'm naked, I tug at the thick blanket in an attempt to wrap it around me. It's heavy, or stuck somewhere. 'Okay, mute guy,' I grunt, still struggling with the stupid thing, but at least half-covered now. 'I'll find my friend, then I'll pack our things and we'll leave.'

I take a step towards the door and lose my grip on the blanket as I notice that something's wrong with my left foot. Pain shoots up my leg and the floor begins to tip. The white furball plus the rug it occupies are approaching fast.

A yelp, a nip in my arm, and I bonk my head on something sturdy.

———

'Micka.'

My eyelids are sticky.

'Micka!'

Something pokes my ribcage. 'Ow!'

'Micka, you need to eat and drink, except, of course, if you'd rather die. I'll have your food then. Fine with me.' Runner's voice. He sounds like he's having fun. 'This wild boar ham is delicious. And the bread! Fresh from the oven. Can I eat it?'

I'm so happy he's alive, my chest is about to burst. I clench my jaws, swallow the excitement, and say, 'Man, you are toying with your life. I'm not a morning person.'

'Excellent. It's noon.'

I rub my eyes and crack them open 'To me it feels like the morning after someone scrunched me through a turbine. You look better than last time I saw you. How's the throat?'

He pushes a plate on my lap. I see a large black stain on the side of his neck; the suture is awfully red and black but not swollen anymore.

'You don't look like you should be walking around,' I tell him.

'I'm okay. You are not, though. You suffered from severe hypothermia and exhaustion. You have a bad concussion. And you...lost two toes of your left foot.'

What an inventory. The information doesn't really lodge in my brain just yet. 'Did the dogs chew them off?'

'No, frostbite. They've been amputated.'