The blast of the rifle drives all noise from the forest. Then I hear Sumi scream. “My foot!” She collapses on the ground. “I've shot my foot!”
I think she could be joking, but then she leans over and throws up. The smell makes me blink, and I'm suddenly much more sober. I pick up the flashlight that she's dropped on the ground and shine it on her foot. It's hard to see but it looks like she stepped in something shiny. I bend and wipe a bit of it, then look at it under the flashlight. Blood. I drop to my knees and put the flashlight close to her foot.
She's screaming, and now I know it's for real. The side of her boot is torn open and a gush of blood pumps out onto the ground. Bits of her sock stick out of the wound. I see white things that I really hope aren't bone.
Sumi pants, “How bad is it?”
I lie. “Looks like your boot got most of it. There's some bleeding though. I'll take care of that.”
I really did take a first-aid course. I had to in order to get into the cook training program. We learned how to wrap the end of a finger so it can be reattached.
Nothing is getting reattached on Sumi's foot. It looks like ground beef.
I take off the jacket and strip down to the cleanest thing I haveâmy shirt. I ball it up into a wad and press it onto the boot. Sumi swears and tries to pull her foot away. “Easy.” I wrap the sleeves of the shirt around her boot, trying to contain most of her foot pieces. Blood soaks through the shirt. I tighten the sleeves so that there is more pressure over the wound.
“I need to get you back to the cabin.”
Sumi is lying on her back now, her hands over her face. I think she's crying but she doesn't want me to see. There's no way she can walk. I look around and spot the wheelbarrow. It's been scrubbed clean. I get the wheelbarrow and bring it over.
“I'm going to help you up.”
She nods and extends her hand. I haul her up, catching her arm around my shoulder. She hops on her good foot. Then she crumples into the wheelbarrow, holding her injured foot straight out.
The ground is rough and she curses at every bump we hit. But I manage to get her back to the cabin. She gets out of the wheelbarrow and sinks down face-first on the porch steps. I think she's going to be sick again, but she drags herself to the cabin door.
“Let me help you.”
It's like I'm not even there. She drags herself in, half crawling, and heads straight for her bunk.
I light the lantern and spot a first-aid kit hanging by the door. Sumi is on her back in the bed. Her face is covered in sweat and she's pale. I grab the pillow from my bunk and tuck it under her leg so her foot is suspended in the air. I don't bother removing the first dressing, just fold one from the kit over top and tie it. It doesn't soak through right away, which surprises me. I pull a blanket over her. “I'm going to go get my dad.”
Sumi shakes her head. “It's too dark. You'll get lost.”
I think about how black the water looked that first night, no lights, nothing to mark the way. I say, “There's a moon tonight.”
“There could be frigging stage lighting and you'd still get lost.”
“You could tell me the way.”
“And you'd still get lost.”
“You can draw me a map.”
“Shit, Lucas,” she snaps. “It's not like there are signsâturn left at Pine Forest, second left at Salmon Creek. This coastline is like a broken comb. Everything looks the same. Sometimes even I get turned around. You could use up all your fuel wandering around like a fart in a glove.”
I've heard my father use that expression. I say, “You need a doctor, Sumi.”
She puts her hands over her face and moans, “Obviously.”
“I could try. If I can't find Dad, I'll come back.”
“No. Your old man should be here first thing in the morning. If not, we'll figure out something else. But you're not going anywhere until it gets light.”
I sit down on the floor beside her bunk. “Sumi, I'm sorry.”
“You're an idiot.”
“I am. You're absolutely right.”
“I know I'm right. And you sound like an idiot too.”
I open my mouth to say something but decide to shut up.
She says, “You are the biggest idiot on the planet.”
I nod.
“You do not belong here.”
“I don't.”
“You don't have the first clue about what it's like to live here. You don't respect what it takes.”
It sounds like she's crying, and I know better than to look. Finally she says, “I never should have fired it.”
I take a chance and turn to her. I make a move to brush a tear from her cheek but she holds her hand up to stop me.
She says, “And I actually pointed it at my foot.”
Since I have nothing to lose, I say, “Well, you missed a good chunk of it.”
She glares at me and then says, “Good thing I'm a terrible shot.”
Now she lets me wipe away her tears. She says, “You're wasting lamp oil.”
I snuff the lantern. Sumi is quiet. I know she's not sleeping because of the way she's breathing. After a long time I say, “You want some water or something?”
But she doesn't answer.
I wish it were my foot. Then the pain would be concrete. Busted bone and scraps of flesh, that's real. This pain I feel is just a never-ending feeling of guilt. I must have fallen asleep though, because now the cabin is light. Sumi is lying with her eyes open, looking at the window.
“Fog,” she says.
I get up and last night's Kahlúa ricochets inside my skull. I blink, then walk over to the window. It's all white and I rub the glass. Still nothing. I open the front door and step out onto the porch. The air feels like I'm inside a cloud. I can barely see the steps.
My stomach does a slow roll. No way will Dad be out in this. He'll take one look at the fog and go back to bed. Now anger boils in my gut. If he had stayed like he was supposed to, none of this would have happened.
I almost fall down the steps and turn to where the outhouse should be, except the whole world has disappeared. I walk a few paces down the path and turn back to the cabin. I can barely see it. In the fog, even sound is different. It's like everything is inside my head. I take a leak right where I'm standing and I know Sumi is right, I don't have what it takes for this place. I feel my way back to the cabin.
Sumi is just the way I left her. Her skin is pale and her hair seems to stick to her forehead. I start a fire in the stove and fill the kettle.
“Can I have a look at your foot?”
She doesn't respond, so I peel back the blanket. There's no more blood than last night, which is good. I put the blanket back. I find her staring at me and it makes me jump.
She says, “The fog won't lift for hours. Choppers won't fly, not in this.”
“Yeah, but⦔
“Shut up. You have to listen to me.” Her voice is dead calm, and that scares me worse than her stare.
“Okay.” I pull a chair over to the bed and sit down.
“You're going to take me to the logging camp. It's a bit farther but they have a medic and maybe even a helicopter already on the pad. We could go to my place but who knows when the chopper could get in.”
I nod, not wanting to interrupt.
“I'm going to tell you how to find the camp. But you have to do this, Lucas. If you screw up and get us lost, I'm bear bait and you're next. No one is coming to find us.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
“Eat something if you want. Then take two fuel cans down to the dinghy.”
I'm about to say that I can't even see the water, but she's still talking.
“Fog is like a wet blanket. Get yourself properly dressed this time. Put something on your head. I've got stuff you can use. Just find it.”
It's like the effort of speaking wears her out. She sinks back onto her pillow.
Outside, it's like being blind, except that instead of black, everything is white. I can barely see my feet, but I can tell from the gravel that I'm on the path down to the water. The fuel cans are outside the boat shed, and I load two into the wheelbarrow and then wheel down to the water. It takes a while to find the dinghy, but luckily I don't have to haul it too far to get it into the water. I load the fuel cans, then tie the dinghy well up on the shore. The rocks are wet, so I guess the tide is going out, but I'm not sure of anything.
When I get back to the cabin, I'm already tired. I dump everything out of my backpack onto my bunk and then go to Sumi's supplies and pack it with food and water. I grab my sleeping bag and warm clothes for both of us. Sumi doesn't say a word, just lies there looking straight up. I say, “Let's go,” and I help her sit up. She leans on me to stand. She smells sour and her breath stinks. I'm sure I smell just as bad. I half carry her to the porch and then help her into the wheelbarrow. I jam the backpack and sleeping bag in around her.
“What do we need all this crap for?” she says. She's about to toss out the sleeping bag but I reach over and pull it back on top of her. She grumbles but leaves it alone.
When we get to the water, I can't get the wheelbarrow onto the rocks, so I have to practically carry Sumi to the dinghy. I untie it and take the oars. Only thing is, I can't see the fishing boat. I know where it must be, but the fog is so thick it's like there's nothing out there.
Sumi grunts, “I'll point. You row.”
“You can see the boat?”
She shakes her head. “No. But I know where it is.”
I'm beginning to wonder how the hell I'm going to find the logging camp. Maybe her foot isn't so bad. Maybe we should just wait it out. The fog will lift, and Dad will show up, and he can drive us to get help. But Sumi is the color of fog. We can't wait. She motions with her hands which way I should steer and, sure enough, I crash into the fishing boat, again. I hold the dinghy against the fishing boat so that Sumi can haul herself into the bigger boat. I try to ignore the words she calls me as I help push her butt into the boat.
I tie the dinghy to the mooring buoy, then clamber into the fishing boat. Sumi has taken a spot on the bottom facing back. She's using the backpack to hold up her injured foot. I toss her the sleeping bag and she wraps it around her shoulders. I pull up the hood on my floater coat and cinch it down around my face. Sumi tells me how to start the engine and I manage to get it going, then put it in gear.
Sumi closes her eyes and then motions with her hand, indicating which way I should steer. “Yesterday we fished toward open water. Today we're going the other direction and then up an inlet.”
I nod. How hard could this be?
“Keep the shoreline on your left so it is just barely visible. At full throttle, it will take us just over two hours.”
I mentally calculate lunch at the logging campâa big plate of pancakes or whatever lumberjacks eat. They'll have a satellite phone, and I'll call my father and tell him he's a prick, although he probably already knows this.
“But with this visibility, we can't go more than quarter speed,” she says.
I do the math. “That's like eight hours!”
“The inlet is peppered with deadheads, logs from the camp that get waterlogged and sink just out of sight under the water. Nail a deadhead and you'll be lucky if you're rowing home.”
I set the throttle to the speed Sumi says. This speed feels dead slow. The only good thing is that there's less spray.
“You have to listen,” she says, “and I mean really listen, for the sound of water breaking. If you hear that, you're coming up on the shore, and that's a bad thing.”
Yes, driving a boat onto the rocks is a bad thing. So, watch for invisible deadheads and listen for an invisible shoreline.
“There are some shallow spots. I'll try to let you know when we're getting close.”
Oh good.
“And don't waste fuel. You steer like you're drunk. Keep us heading straight.”
I sigh. “Anything else?”
“It won't be for a while yet, but when you see the old Haida village on your right, you have to veer left. The inlet splits there and you'll be up your ass if you go the wrong way.”
See an old village? Like I can see anything on shore right now. I say, “You're making this sound so easy.”
She shifts her injured foot, grimacing with pain. “For most people, it would be.”
I don't know if the fog is lifting or if I'm just getting used to it. I manage to steer around two deadheads. It's like the log is standing on its end in the water and just the tip sticks out, so you don't see it until you're practically on top of it. Each hour we're out we see more deadheads, and that's good, because it means we're getting closer to the camp.
My legs are sore from pulling in the halibut yesterday. So I sit, and then my butt is sore from sitting. And my hand is sore from steering the outboard. Cold is starting to creep in around the neck of my jacket. My feet are warm enough, thank goodness, because I'm wearing two pairs of heavy wool socks inside my rubber boots.
Which makes me think, why isn't Sumi's foot cold? She was wearing only one pair of socks when she shot herself. I look over at her. Her face is a weird color, somewhere between green and gray. I say, “You warm enough?”
She doesn't respond right away, and when she does, it takes her a while to focus on my face. “I'm fine.”
Shit. She is not fine. I try to remember what happens to people when they've been injured. Shock, that's it, and it can kill you. You're supposed to keep the person warm and reassure them. Oh, yeah, and call 9-1-1. I say, “Maybe get right into the sleeping bag. I'll help you.” I make a move toward her but she growls.
She sits without speaking, then says, “When I was born, my hair was jet-black, my mother said, like my grandmother's. Then it grew in brown.”