Numb, Milt gawked into the storm. Allen stared at his trembling, useless surgeon’s hands. Broker kept seeing Sommer paddling. .
Lassitude, the second fuzzy layer of shock, was setting in, so Broker roused and pounded their shoulders-Milt’s good one.
“Okay. C’mon. Keep it simple.” First they had to get dried off. Gently they dressed Sommer in fresh clothing, easing him into a sleeping bag and moving him close to the fire. Allen made an ice pack from a T-shirt and some shore ice and placed it on Sommer’s stomach. Then they built the fire waist-high, stripped, wrung out their clothes, rigged a clothes line, and set out their wet boots.
Milt’s biceps was already swollen purple, hot to the touch, so Allen wrapped it in ice and tied a sling from a sweatshirt.
“Fucking rotator cuff, again,” Milt hissed.
“Take some Tylenol,” Allen said.
Milt waved him off. “Save it for Sommer.”
Broker took inventory. They’d lost the coffeepot and the propane stove and fuel, but he found a coffee can full of tea bags and instant coffee. He filled the can with water, then put it over the fire and doled out hefty candy bars.
They’d overbuilt the fire and now they began to stumble in the drowsy warmth. To keep them alert, Broker brewed strong, hot tea which they drank from canteen cups as they gobbled chocolate bars. Allen gingerly spooned tea to Sommer.
“Well, how bad is he?” Milt asked.
Allen calculated. “He has to get to an operating room in twenty-four hours.”
Their eyes locked in a fast, triage glance.
“And I can’t operate in the woods with a hunting knife and aspirin,” Allen said.
“And I can’t paddle with this arm,” Milt said.
“And I can’t do it alone,” Broker said, careful to control his voice. On a hard paddle out, he’d much prefer Milt.
“So that’s it,” Milt said. “I stay with Hank, you two paddle for help.”
Broker started making his preparations.
“What are our chances?” Allen asked.
Broker glanced over at Sommer in the sleeping bag. “I won’t bullshit you. Getting out’s the easy part. It’s getting back in that’s hairy.” He yanked his thumb at the storm. “The wind’s out of the northwest. That’s classic Alberta Clipper. If something really big’s coming down from Canada, we’ll hit it going out. The Forest Service has a seaplane base in Ely, and the state patrol has a helicopter. That’s his only chance.”
Their eyes met. Allen said, “But bad weather could keep them from flying.”
“There it is,” Broker said.
“I don’t have to tell you how serious this is,” Allen said. “His bowel has popped through a tear in his stomach wall, the muscles have constricted, and I can’t reduce it-push it back in. His intestine is incarcerated, it’s not getting blood, the tissue is dying. If it perforates, depending on the size of the tear, his stomach cavity could literally flood with his own shit.”
“Peritonitis,” Broker said.
“Not the way I’d choose for him to die,” Allen said tartly, staring out into the whirling snow.
Sommer curled in the sleeping bag with his knees drawn up in a fetal knot of pain. “Jo-lene,” he moaned, going in and out of consciousness.
“Is that?” Broker asked.
Milt nodded his head, raised an eyebrow, and drew out the syllables as an afterthought: “Joe-leene.”
Sommer repeated his wife’s name like a painful metronome, marking time, and it was all about time now. Two hours had passed since they’d fumbled ashore. Hypothermia was behind them, they had retrieved the canoe from the point, but Broker wanted to make sure that he and Allen were thawed and in dry gear before they faced the weather again.
They hunkered over a topographical map on which their itinerary had been traced in yellow Magic Marker. Allen reached over abruptly, turned Broker’s wrist, and plucked the cheap canvas strap on his watch. Broker started to react, then saw that the doctor didn’t mean to be rude-he was just curious and his curiosity didn’t respect normal boundaries.
“Still running. Twelve bucks, United Store,” Broker said evenly.
Allen, wearing a Rolex Explorer II, nodded and continued to lace on his boots. Broker cinched up the survival bag. They had food, flashlights, sleeping bags, a change of dry clothes, a sound eighteen-foot canoe, and three paddles. For ballast, Broker wrapped some dry kindling in a poncho liner.
Allen gave his last instructions to Milt about applying ice packs to reduce the swelling. Broker knelt and put his hand on Sommer’s shoulder. “Hey.”
“Hiya, homeboy,” Sommer said through clenched teeth. Briefly their eyes conjured with credentials, then Sommer quipped, “You still here? Go out there and find me a skyhook.”
Allen said, “No food and no water after midnight. This time tomorrow he’s going to be on an operating table.”
“Allen, we’ve gotta roll,” Broker said, getting to his feet.
“Better get ahold of Jo,” Sommer said.
“First thing,” Allen said.
“Tell her I ain’t dead yet,” Sommer said, managing the barest grin. He raised one hand weakly in farewell and dropped it.
Broker and Allen left shelter and went to the canoe that Broker had readied on the cobble beach. The storm winds had spiraled away, leaving the fickle lake relatively calm. They shook Milt’s left hand and, with snowflakes pelting their faces, they launched into the restless swells.