Part 2
Everett was already tightening the line around his waist before the third knock had faded.
“No,” Naomi said through the phone.
“The person inside may not have eleven minutes.”
“And if you go through, I have two people to retrieve.”
Everett secured Micah inside the insulated compartment of his pack, leaving the top open and the thermal blanket wrapped around him. The young shepherd trembled hard enough to shake the zipper pull.
“I’m taking the stone shelf route,” Everett said. “The current is slower on the east side of the island.”
“You haven’t tested it this season.”
Neither had anyone else. That was why Dale had called.
Everett took a long probing pole from the emergency tube beside the trail marker and lowered himself onto the ice. The anchored line carried him across the weakest section near shore. When it reached its limit, he had gained the shallower water above the island’s submerged stone shelf.
He tested the surface twice, unclipped himself, and left the line stretched behind him. Beyond that point, the firmer band above the shelf offered his best route to the cabin.
Naomi remained on the phone. He could hear engines, radios, and clipped instructions behind her voice.
“Talk to me,” she said.
“Six feet beyond the line. Surface is holding.”
“Your hand?”
“Working.”
“That was not the question.”
He advanced one careful length at a time. Snow obscured the marks left by the boot prints, but near the island he found the shallow depressions again. A walking stick had punctured the snow beside them.
The last thirty feet took longer than the first sixty. When Everett reached the stone shelf, he caught the edge and pulled himself onto the island.
The cabin door would not open. A section of packed roof snow had fallen against it and frozen there.
Everett struck the wall with the pole. “Can you hear me?”
For several seconds, nothing answered. Then an older man’s voice came through the boards.
“I could hear you better if you stopped hitting the building.”
A complaint was a good sign.
Everett moved to the side window. “Stay back from the glass.”
“That advice assumes movement is available to me.”
He broke the lower pane inward and cleared the frame before climbing through. The room smelled of wet wood, old kerosene, and extinguished smoke.
Silas Redfern lay beside the cold stove, one leg trapped beneath a fallen rack and a broken roof brace. He was eighty-three, narrow through the shoulders, with a white mustache and eyebrows that seemed to object independently to his circumstances. A mustard-colored cap lay near the door. The lower half of his left trouser leg was soaked.
Despite the blue cast around his mouth, Silas looked offended rather than frightened.
“You took your time.”
“You Silas Redfern?”
“Depends whether you’re carrying a bill.”
Everett crouched beside him and checked his pulse. “Rescue.”
“Then I have always been Silas Redfern.”
The rack had fallen when Silas tried to reach the cabin’s throw rope. Its weight pinned his lower leg against the floor, but the boot remained straight and the toes responded when Everett pressed them.
“How long?”
“The wall clock stopped at eleven twenty.”
“That clock stopped when my father owned this place.”
“I had planned to repair it.”
Everett took the mechanical jack from the emergency shelf. Rust marked the handle, but the gears engaged. He positioned it beneath the broken support.
“Micah?” Silas asked.
“Alive.”
For the first time, the irritation left his face. His eyes closed briefly.
“He got out?”
“I pulled him out.”
“Was he conscious?”
“Eventually.”
Silas let his head rest against the wall. Relief aged him more effectively than fear had.
Everett began lifting the brace. His left hand shook on the jack handle, and sensation came back in sharp, burning threads.
“You went in after him,” Silas said.
“Partly.”
“There are less elaborate ways to admit you fell through.”
The brace rose enough for Everett to wedge a block beneath it. Silas inhaled through his teeth but made no other sound. Everett shifted the jack, lifted again, and dragged him clear by the shoulders.
The left ankle had circulation, but swelling was already spreading above it. Everett splinted the leg and wrapped Silas in another emergency blanket.
“What happened?” he asked.
Silas looked toward the blocked door. “A metal warning plate tore loose from its post. The wind dragged it across the ice. Micah heard it and ran toward the sound.”
“Why didn’t he come back?”
“He tried.” Shame thinned Silas’s voice. “He turned the wrong way.”
A rescue horn sounded from shore.
Through the broken window, Everett saw orange jackets moving onto the river. Naomi had brought two tethered rescuers, a sled, and enough equipment to make his decision look exactly as reckless as she believed it was.
They reached the cabin by following the route Everett had marked. Naomi climbed through the window last, assessed Silas, inspected the temporary splint, and then touched Everett’s soaked sleeve.
“You said your arm was wet.”
“It is.”
“This is half your upper body.”
“Less than half.”
Silas opened one eye. “I believe his arithmetic may be affected by the cold.”
Naomi gave Everett a look that promised a later conversation and turned back to the rescue. They moved Silas through the window onto the sled, stabilized the leg, and covered him against the wind.
The return crossing took nearly twice as long. Snow had erased several of Everett’s marks, and Naomi refused to hurry even when Silas complained that the sled made him feel like improperly secured freight.
At the bank, veterinarian Harriet Sloan was waiting beside her transport van. Her silver-blond curls escaped from beneath a knitted cap, and red-brown glasses sat low on her nose. She went straight to Everett’s pack.
“Micah.”
The dog’s left ear moved toward her voice.
Harriet lifted him into the heated van, placed him on a padded table, and began checking his heart, lungs, temperature, and gums. Everett climbed in beside him while Naomi’s team loaded Silas into the ambulance.
“You know the dog?” Everett asked.
“I’ve spent six weeks watching Silas pretend he isn’t considering adoption.”
From the stretcher outside, Silas raised his voice. “It was a trial placement.”
Harriet did not turn. “You brought me four pages of questions about his preferred sleeping surface.”
“Compatibility requires data.”
At the clinic, Micah warmed gradually beneath blankets and heated air. His coat dried into uneven ridges, revealing a pale triangle beneath his chin and paws too large for his unfinished body.
Harriet listened to his chest again. “Another few minutes in that water, and we’d be having a different conversation.”
Everett stood beside the table with a warming pack around his left hand. “Why did he turn the wrong way when Silas called?”
“He has reduced directional hearing on the right side. He hears, but in wind or competing noise he can misplace where a sound began.”
“He was being trained as a service dog?”
“Evaluated for it. He’s steady, bright, and good with people. But he can’t reliably orient toward an alarm in a crowded room, so he left the program.”
Through the doorway, Silas sat on an exam bed while Naomi waited for the hospital transport. His wet trouser leg had been cut away, and a temporary brace covered the swelling.
“He is not defective,” Silas said.
“No one said he was,” Harriet replied.
“The training report used unsuitable.”
“For one specific job.”
Micah opened his eyes at Silas’s voice. He tried to rise, but Harriet held one hand gently against his chest.
Naomi placed the broken warning plate on the counter. “We found only two of the four weak-ice markers around the island. This one tore loose. Another had drifted downstream.”
“The posts were correct three days ago,” Silas said.
“Were they?”
He looked at her.
Naomi unfolded a river map. The veterans’ memorial fishing gathering was scheduled for two mornings later, a mile and a half downstream. Twenty-six people had registered. Most were over sixty-five.
“What were you doing at the cabin alone?” she asked.
“Checking the upper markers and collecting the rescue ropes. I inspected the memorial reach earlier this week.”
“With Everett?”
Silas’s gaze shifted toward him. “No.”
Everett felt Dale’s unanswered messages waiting inside his pocket.
Naomi placed one finger on the downstream section of the map. “Did you approve this area?”
“I submitted my field assessment.”
“What did you use to evaluate the current below the ice?”
“A hand auger, depth rod, surface temperatures, and forty years of observing that river.”
“That wasn’t my question. Did you use the current monitor?”
Silas looked toward Micah.
The dog lay between them, breathing beneath Harriet’s hand.
“The lower monitor has been offline for nineteen months,” Silas said…
To read the rest of the story – CLICK the NEXT button 👇👇👇