The clock read 6:58 am. He leapt out of bed, the silence creating a vacuum. No storm meant he had to work as fast as he could. He threw a coat over his rumpled shirt, grabbed a granola bar, a water bottle, and a backpack then headed to the barn. He had to find enough solar panels and create a reserve stack in case any panels were destroyed. He might even enlarge the circuit.
He grabbed the hacksaw, garden shears for clearing branches, a drill motor, and some screwdriver bits then put them back. Without electricity he couldn’t charge the battery. It was useless. He grabbed a plus and minus screwdriver and a hammer and threw in some rags.
He hiked through the long grass to the back pasture, knee high in grass. Trees lay across the fence in several places. Dad wouldn’t be able to sell the farm with all this damage, right?
He trudged through the open field, stepping over branches, pieces of plastic, scraps of cardboard, and an old horse blanket tangled in the long grass. The striped red and yellow umbrella from the patio lay upside down in the grass, looking festive and surreal.
He spotted a panel under the umbrella covered with fir needles, strips of plastic, and sheets of insulation. Fallen trees on the adjoining property created a chaotic wall of trunks and branches, a garbage stopper or fortress wall. Josh couldn’t decide.
He wiped pine needles and debris off the panel and leaned it against a water bucket lying on its side. He found another panel, then another, each one buried under branches and debris. He added a fourth panel to the stack then stood to stretch his back. He tugged a bandana from his pocket and wiped his brow, but a movement in the distance stopped him. Shielding his eyes, he peered into the distance. Someone stood on a log, matted hair framing a white face, and clothes hanging like rags. A girl? She swung a branch in short strokes over her head, her arms flapping. Her thin voice floated across the field, but he couldn’t make out the words. Then she disappeared.
She’d fallen. He dropped the solar panel and grabbed his water bottle. He leaped over branches and debris, climbing over tree trunks. He scrambled over the fence, focusing on the spot she’d fallen. Time was against her if she was dehydrated or sick, and she was probably both. He searched the logs lying on the ground. If she’d fallen behind one, he could lose her.
He climbed onto a log and spotted her. She lay like a broken doll in the salal. He dropped to her side and bent to check her pulse. The bouquet of rotten eggs mixed with the tang of vomit and crushed fir needles flooded his nostrils. It mingled with the solid aroma of moist dirt churned by uplifted roots.
He gagged. Heat rose to his cheeks. Her eyes were closed, so maybe she hadn’t witnessed his reaction. He held his breath and checked for broken bones. She was in one piece, thank goodness.
He lifted her head and held his water bottle to her lips. She sipped, her tongue clicking against the top of her mouth. Dehydration.
“You found me. Thank the goddesses.” She tried to sit but groaned, falling back.
The goddesses? Josh scratched his head. “You’re sick. I can help you, but we must get to my house. It’s not far.” He tried to help her stand, but her legs collapsed. He eased her onto the ground, her stench thick in the air.
“I was so thirsty.” She clutched her middle, her face bright red.
“No. You—”
“Drank from the river.”
“Oh.” He frowned. Who drank from the river? Didn’t she know?
“Jade gave me purification tablets.”
He frowned. “You had purifica—” He shook his head.
She didn’t open her eyes. She wouldn’t be sick if she’d used them. She seemed to understand that now. Who was she? He climbed a log to decide the best route home. She could barely walk let alone climb, so it had to be log free.
Where had she come from? Logs obstructed any trail she might have taken. He glanced at her thin form sprawled in the salal. She’d never make it to the house on foot.
The rushing water of the river mingled with bird song. He ran his fingers through his hair. Sunrays slanted through the few trees still standing, but he only had about twenty minutes of daylight to move her to the house. She tried to sit, and a putrid smell rose. Did he try to clean her up here? How did he make that happen?
“We need to go.” His mouth had gone dry.
She shook her head. “No. Not like this.” She rolled over, and the stench hit him full force. She knelt on hands and knees then rose.
“Let me help,” he said, his voice cracking.
“No.” Her cheeks glowed pink. “Go.” She waved him away with one hand while struggling to remove one of her shoes.
He turned his head and swallowed a lungful of air. He slipped off her shoes then backed away, his cheeks burning. “I’ll be back. I have to get my tools.”
She nodded. He climbed over the log and jogged back across the pasture. Did she know how sick she was? Could he really help her? He gathered the hammer and other tools, stuffed them in his pack, and walked back to the girl. She’d need time to do whatever she was going to do, and he’d make sure she got it.
He leaned over the log to where she lay, the odors still strong. She’d piled her soiled clothes under the log and covered herself with a button-down sweater, but she hadn’t moved far from where he’d found her. He climbed down to her, and she watched his every move. He dipped his finger in his water bottle then ran it over her chapped lips, winced when her skin caught on his finger. She licked the water off as he lifted her head and held the bottle to sip. With his thumb and forefinger, he took the skin on her arm between them and pinched, not hard, but her skin stayed pinched. Dehydration, page 52.
“We’ve got to get you to my house and start you on Rejuvelyte. Hopefully you can keep it down.”
The girl nodded, then strained to sit. He put a hand on her backpack and felt a lump. “Is that an apple?”
“Mine.” She glared at him.
“Okay.” He held his hands up.
How had she gotten here alone? She was here now, and he had to move her to the house. He couldn’t carry her. Helping her walk that distance wasn’t an option.
Maybe a stretcher would work. He rummaged through the branches and sticks and found two straight ones the length of a broom handle. He sawed them to an even length. He took off his hoodie, laid the poles lengthwise inside his hoodie, and zipped it. He took the other coat out of his pack and did the same. He lifted the poles to test the tautness of the coats. They would support her, and her weight would keep them taut.
He knelt beside her. “It won’t be the most comfortable ride, but it’s the fastest way to get you to my house.”
She stared at him, her eyes blazing.
“I can’t leave you here. This stretcher should work. We just have to get you on it.”
She had tied the sweater sleeves over her legs and zipped her hoodie, pulling it down over her hips. Her apples bulged in the backpack lying across her legs. She might not be prepared, but she’s brave.
He held his breath as he helped her to stand and guided her to the stretcher. She lay on the makeshift stretcher, small and thin. It sent a chill through him.
What if I hadn’t seen her?
He’d mix some R first thing and heat some bone broth. He placed her shoes next to her feet still in gray socks.
“Ready?” He threw the saw in the backpack and shrugged into it.
She nodded her eyes closed. A sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead. He lifted the poles, and the stretcher tipped. The girl yelped.
“Sorry. Sorry.” Heat rose to his cheeks. “I didn’t think you’d need a seatbelt.”
She grunted, and he glanced at her. Her lips rose at the corners. Was that a smile? With slow determination, he dragged the stretcher around logs and to the fence, cut a hole in the wire, towed her through, and hauled her across the pasture. He avoided the larger piles of branches and roofing.
She moaned when they passed the umbrella, and he glanced over his shoulder. Was that a laugh? Her eyes were closed, and she clutched her sweater over her legs.
He hauled the stretcher to the back door and set the poles on the steps to keep her head off the ground. She didn’t stir. Was she still alive? He checked her pulse and found a steady beat at her wrist. She opened her eyes.
“We’re here.” Now for the hard part.
She tried to sit but fell back.
“Wait a minute. You might want to…”
He waved his hand at the sweater over her legs, and she nodded. He turned around and stared at the clouds and the remaining treetops in the distance. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans and glanced over his shoulder. She had adjusted the sweater to cover her legs.
“Ready.” He glanced at her, but she was focused on retying the sweater and buttoning as many buttons as she could reach. She nodded.
He lifted her shoulders and helped her stand on wobbly legs then, with her arm around his shoulder, he walked her up the porch steps and through the kitchen. They shuffled down the hall to the basement door.
“The steps are steep, so we’ll go slow.” He stood with her at the top as she stared into the darkness. He flipped the light switch, and a shudder shook her frame. He adjusted her arm over his shoulder, and they made the slow descent, one step at a time.
He helped her to the couch. “I’ll get you a drink.” He mixed a pitcher of Rejuvelyte and carried a glass to the couch.
“Here.” He held it to her lips. She drank several gulps.
Kneeling beside her, he placed his fingers on her forehead. Fever, page 80. He held the glass to her lips again and noticed that her skin was wrinkled, and her eyes seemed to sink into her skull. He’d found her just in time, or had she found him?
“Take little sips, in case you can’t keep it down.”
“Keep it down?”
“You could vomit this too, which would exacerbate your dehydration. Then we’d have another set of problems.”
“Exacer-what?”
“You’ll get worse, and—”
“I’m not going to die.” She glared at him.
Grandpa was the first dead person he’d ever seen, but that had been in a funeral parlor, and he’d expected it, sort of. Chip was a total surprise—that scene still made him nauseous, but he couldn’t let this girl die.
“Of course not.” He looked into her dark eyes. She needed a shower, but she was too weak. “I’ll get you a washcloth and some clean clothes.”
What was he thinking? She needed a woman helping her, not him. He rushed to the bathroom and ran a cloth under the faucet. At least she’d get warm water, thanks to Grandpa.
He handed her the washcloth. “Can you manage?”
She nodded, and he headed upstairs to the spare room. He grabbed a box marked “Donate,” and carried it into the basement. He sorted through and found a T-shirt he’d worn in the seventh grade. He held it up. It would be huge on her, but it would have to do. He found a pair of gray sweatpants from sixth grade. Why had his mom kept this stuff? Thank heavens she did. He carried the clothes to her, but she’d fallen asleep, her face scrubbed pink. That was good, right? Sleep was good.
The dark bruises under her eyes and her pinched face told him she needed to be in a hospital on a saline drip, but she was here, and he was all she had for now.
He needed fresh air. The girl snored in soft huffs, and Josh crept up the basement stairs. Why was he tiptoeing? He plopped on the top step of the front porch. The excitement of getting her home and settling her on the couch left him restless. He stared at the barn, solid and squat across the driveway, a sheet of metal roofing curled in one place, missing in another.
Why had he brought this girl home? She would have died if he’d left her. He sighed and dropped his head in his hand. Now he’d have less time to work on the solar panels, but he would have more time to listen for radio messages. He stood and paced the porch. When would help arrive? When would power be restored?
Bird song and the rustle of branches eased his restless mind. Doctor. Would he be any good at it, really?
The sky was a brilliant blue behind the white clouds billowing in from the southwest—the calm before the next storm. Beautiful, but the wind picked up, and he turned and made his way down the stairs.
She lay so still on the couch, so sick. Sick Girl, that’s who she was, but she must have a name. He couldn’t call her Sick Girl all the time. He studied her pale face. At least her snoring had stopped. He pressed the back of his fingers to her forehead, still warm but not hot.
Where was she from? Where were her parents? Who was she?
He needed answers that would have to wait. He poured out a fresh glass of R. It didn’t seem like enough, but it was the best he could do. He prodded her shoulder gently with his fingertips until her eyelashes fluttered, but she kept her eyes closed.
“You have to drink.” Holding the glass of R to her lips, he waited until she had choked down a tablespoonful.
She seemed weaker now than when he’d found her. He tucked the blanket around her legs. Gravitating toward his violin, he lifted the case and opened it, held the instrument. Its weight alone comforted him. It had filled the hole in his chest after Grandpa’s funeral. He’d play for hours, disappearing into each note that strung into a melody. The simple act of running his hand over the smooth wood eased the tension from his shoulders.
Sick Girl moaned from the couch, and he stopped, placing the violin in the case. He grabbed a bucket and set it beside the couch. Then he pressed the glass to her lips again, but she shook her head.
“Hey, you’re dehydrated. You’ll die if you don’t drink.” Had he said the wrong thing? Her eyelids had fluttered at the word “die.” He raised her head and put the glass to her mouth. She moaned. Hard flakes of skin were cracking from her lips. He reached a finger to touch them but drew it back.
He grabbed the dirty washcloth from the end table and threw it by the washer on the far side of the room then grabbed a clean cloth from the bathroom. He turned on the faucet. It barked out air, and he turned it off.
Not the water, please? He turned it on again. It spurted, then a steady stream rushed out. A loud clunk followed by another, and another made Josh cringe.
The next storm had arrived. At least he had water. He scrubbed his hand then rinsed the rag under warm water, carried it to the couch. What would he do without running water? What were other people doing? He grabbed the glass of R, wet his finger, dabbed it over her chapped lips, then picked up the rag and took one of her hands. She let him rub more dirt from her knuckles and wrists. Her nails, broken and chipped, had small flakes of pink polish, a reminder of better days.
He held the glass to her lips. She tried to swallow but frowned. He waited until she took a sip. These little movements seemed like monumental tasks for her. She opened her eyes and glared at him. They were golden brown, like sunlight glinting off the pond out back. Beautiful. He stared. She closed them.
He reached for his grandmother’s timer, turned the dial to thirty minutes. It ticked away as he ran his fingers through his hair. He caught a sour whiff. He needed a shower, too. He’d wait. She’d need a drink in ten minutes.
He threw some wood on the fire then opened his violin case. He lifted the instrument, polished it with a cloth, then fit his chin in the holder and ran the bow over the strings.
The whine of the strings echoed through the basement, and he cringed, glancing at Sick Girl. That was way too loud. He scanned the room. Maybe it was quieter in the storage room?
He placed his hand on a wood wall panel by the desk. The black handle was the only giveaway. He pulled, and it popped open. He stepped into the storage room and glanced at the door halfway up the wall that led into the root cellar. He had access to carrots and potatoes, but also an emergency escape route. He grabbed a candle and lit a match. Jars of applesauce and raspberry jelly glistened on the shelves.
He placed his candle on one of the jars and sat on a stool. Sound was muffled in the small space. Josh finished tuning as the timer rang. He pushed through the door. She didn’t move, but her pink lips seemed less chapped each time she drank. He reset the timer for thirty minutes and returned to the storage room, back to his violin and peace.
The candle flickered in the darkness as the root cellar door clanked from the high winds blowing overhead. Then the storage room door slammed. He stood tipping the stool with a clatter. The wind created a draft.
He tugged on the handle. It held fast. The wood must have swollen in the storm. He yanked again. The door didn’t budge. Bracing his feet on the cement floor, he jerked, and it popped open.
He poked his head around the door. Sick Girl’s chest rose and fell in even measures. The walls seemed to press in on him. The timer, the girl, the winds, it was too much. He ran up the steps and to the front door. He fumbled with the deadbolt and turned the knob. It blew out of his hand in a blast of wind. A twirl of paper, plastic, and wood chips twirled across the floor.
He scanned the yard, but a gust blew branches and more debris against him. He squinted at the sky, thunderheads racing across the sky. He was trapped.
He shook his fist at the clouds. “Screw you, wind. Screw you, storm. Damn it.”
A plastic bottle flew up and hit him between the eyes. He fell. Was that a sign? No cursing at storms? The timer rang, and he balled his fists.
Would the circuit survive storm number three? It had to. He closed the door and locked it, jogged down the steps, and reset the timer. He scrubbed his hands and face. It helped. He had to stay sharp.
He placed his fingers on the girl’s neck, a pulse beat strong. He lifted her head a bit, pressed the glass to her lips. She sipped. He let her rest for a couple breaths then offered her the glass again. She swallowed hard and coughed.
Placing the glass on the coffee table, he turned to the radio. He dialed in a local channel, and the messages came streaming in, one after another. He grabbed a pencil and paper:
Juneau, Alaska: Snowstorm, high winds.
Prince George, BC: High winds.
Bella Coola, BC: Flooding.
Bellingham, Washington: People heading for storm shelters.
The winds blustered around the house. At this rate, he wouldn’t have to clean at all. The wind would just blow everything away.
He switched to transmit and dialed in Uncle Carl’s frequency. Then he coded:
Woolf Farm: All’s well. Rescued girl. Dehydrated and vomiting.
He tapped in the last bit of code, and the timer rang. Had he just sent out gibberish? Grandpa had always said not to worry about transmitting. In an emergency, an experienced radio operator would get the gist. Mistakes were expected.
Would he get a response from Uncle Carl? He could use one about now. He needed to know Mom was okay, that Uncle Carl was coming back. Then the radio clattered.
Still at hospital. Sis sleeping. Hydrate the girl. I’ll be there ASAP.
He slumped in the chair. The final letters were music to his ears—ASAP. He headed to the couch where Sick Girl lay. He willed her to get better. What was her name? He couldn’t call her Sick Girl forever. She moaned again, and his belly tightened.
“You can do this, Josh. If you don’t…”
He lifted her head, and she sipped and smacked her lips. Then she put her hand to the glass. He helped her, and she took a full swallow. She opened her eyes.
“Good job.” He nodded and grinned.
She grunted.
“I’m Josh. What’s your name?”
She stared at him, dark shadows around her eyes. He poured more R in the glass and held it for her. She drank then cleared her throat.
“Ehhhh—” she croaked through chapped lips.
He held up his hand. “You don’t have to speak.” Her hoarse voice made his throat hurt with sympathy pains.
“Emmmm—” She frowned at him with her fierce brown eyes and coughed.
“Shhh.” He placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Emm-ah,” she mumbled.
A coughing fit doubled her over. He held the glass to her lips, and she sipped then fell back against the pillow.
“Emma.” He sat back in his chair. Sick Girl had a name. “Hmm.”
She smiled but didn’t open her eyes.