I follow my path in the snow back to Paul quite easily and find him sleeping. I lay the branches down on the ground and shake him gently. He comes to fairly quickly.
“You can’t sleep now,” I tell him.
He looks at me dully, the information not processing through his brain as quickly as normal.
“Right,” he says, “should stay awake after a head injury.”
He looks at the pile of branches.
“You’ve taken a lot of pills, Paul. I’m going to have to wake you every hour or so, just to be safe.”
“Take off the branches and find the straightest one,” he whispers.
I pick out two short, thick pieces and pull off the small branches.
“Okay,” Paul says. “Make my arm straight like yours and then lay it between these branches. Then wrap one of the extra shirts around it as firmly as you can and tie it off.”
“I can’t straighten your arm.”
He ignores me. I take a sideways look at Paul’s arm. It looks fine through to the elbow, but then a little more than halfway down the forearm, it breaks the wrong way. Even underneath his jacket, the angle is profoundly distorted.
“Put your hands on my arm, as gently as you can.”
I place my hand on the top part of his arm.
“Undo the snap by my wrist, gently, please.” I can’t believe I am going to do this, but I know that I need to save him and I think that-to save myself-I need him.
I pull his jacket sleeve open, and Paul winces with pain but nods at me to keep going. I can see the sweat building up on his forehead.
“Pull back the jacket sleeve, and the sweater and the turtleneck.” He shuts his eyes as I begin and adds, “As carefully as you can, please.”
As I pull back his jacket sleeve, the bulge from the broken bone protrudes more clearly, the thin underlayers holding the form of it. Paul muffles deep, painful groans by biting on the outside of his left jacket sleeve. But he can’t suppress a yelp of pain when I begin to pull back the tight-fitting turtleneck sleeve. There’s blood staining the sleeve, and I realize part of the way down that a little piece of the bone is sticking into the fabric, holding the sleeve to his forearm.
“I’m so sorry!”
“Aahhhh!” he screams. He pounds his good fist against the snow two or three times, screaming, “Fuck!” I stop pulling and watch his sleeve for a bit as a little more blood pools into the cloth.
“Leave it on. Leave it on.” He pounds his fist twice more and then looks at me with wild and alert eyes.
“Do it, Jane… set it now!” he commands.
“I can’t hurt you!” I shout.
“Just push the bones together and get them as straight as you can. Put them between the sticks and wrap it up as tightly as you can. Please, Jane!”
In a swift motion, I grab his arm and push the bone back down into what I hope is its proper place. Paul screams like a wild animal caught in a trap and then goes silent, slumping to the ground. His shrieking rings in my ears.
I say his name, but he doesn’t respond. Pain, of the severe and unrelenting variety, can cause people to pass out or numb up. Or it could just be the full load of pills kicking into his system. I look at his arm again, and it is straight now, but still twisted so the hand doesn’t face the right direction. I hold the forearm steady in my left hand and turn the wrist and the hand into place. The sound of bones crunching is stomach-turning.
I slide the flattest branch under the arm and then I place two skinny straight ones on either side. I take one sweater sleeve and put it under the forearm right at the elbow and slowly wrap it around and around, as tightly as I can manage, until it reaches his wrist. I grab the fourth stick and slide it in between his arm and the flattest piece of wood, creating a splint to keep the hand from dangling.
I look at Paul and he’s still out cold from the pain and probably the pills. I look up and see that the day is almost over. I look around and try to imagine what he would decide to do. First shelter, that’s number one. Then water. I pull out the bottle of melting snow from between my back and jacket. Then I feel for his, lifting up his jacket to pull out the pouch of water.
When I push my hand up under his jacket, I feel a swollen lump on his ribs right beside the bottle. I touch his ribs gently, following the laceration and the bump, from the left side of his rib cage all the way to the front near his heart. I wonder if his ribs are broken too.
What if he dies? Please don’t die.
“Don’t second-guess, Jane,” I could hear the Old Doctor speaking. “It’s neither helpful nor worthy of your time.” Focus, Jane. I look around again and quickly head back toward the dense forest with the fallen tree. I find the tree and gather as many dried-out branches as I can break and carry.
It takes five trips, but eventually I carry enough to where Paul is lying and make a pile. I open both sleeping bags and cover Paul up while he sleeps. I look up to the sky-for help, I guess. Maybe just pity. Maybe just for an acknowledgment that I’m not alone. But no magical voice shouts down with wisdom from the heavens. It might as well be dead up there. All the living is being done down here.
I look at Paul sleeping and realize how little use he will be going forward. A broken arm, a head wound, and, possibly, crushed ribs: there is no way he’s going to be able to climb out of here.
I gather stones from the pile Paul landed on to make a bed for a fire. Then I make a little grid of the thinnest and driest branches. I go into Paul’s knapsack and pull out his dry matches and his brother’s diary. I open it and pick up the letter and reread it.
Tears come to my eyes and I choke up. I think of what Paul and his father are tossing away, but I know it is no worse than what my father stole from me and his mother stole from him. I stuff the letter in my pocket for safety and wipe away my tears on my sleeve. I promise myself I won’t knowingly hurt another soul if I can get this fire started.
Then I go to the back of the book and tear out ten blank sheets of paper. Then a bunch more. I twist them up tightly, like cigarettes without tobacco. I used to roll my own cigarettes, so I know how much longer the paper will last that way. I tuck them carefully under the grid of branches and twigs. I open the thin box of dry matches. There are only three left. I strike one and it lights the first time. I light the end of the first five twisted pages, then blow on the match end. I quickly turn it around, light the other end, and use it to light the remaining paper twists.
The twigs smoke and smolder. I start to blow and blow underneath them, pushing as much oxygen into the tiny flames as possible. Sparks fly and then the embers glow brightly, but nothing much happens. I start to get nervous, so I pull out a few more sheets of paper and twist them up again, carefully placing them beside the brightest embers. After a few minutes of my blowing, a little fire settles and grows beneath the branches. I lay a few large dry pieces down and then it really picks up. “Yes!” I scream. “Thank you!”
I’m not talking to God. I don’t know what or who I’m talking to. But I start thinking about everyone I’ve ever loved: my father, whose watch kept me connected to him when I needed him most; my mother’s smile and laugh, as rare as it was since my dad died, is still in my heart; my grandmother and all the Christmas mornings before everything ended; even Old Doctor, my foe and friend. Who else?
I look at Paul beside me. His angelic face is sweet and rough all at once. His baby blue eyes. I know no matter what happens, those eyes will always be in my memory and my mind will always hold onto every moment we have spent together. And then I think of Will, a person I’ve never met but whose words are little vessels of energy traveling across time and space to lance the sickness in my soul.
Now the driest pieces of branch pop with heat and I quickly put an even bigger piece of wood on them. I take a few moments and warm my hands. I’ve been wearing gloves and have kept my hands from freezing, but the heat coming off the fire stings. I realize how deeply the cold has penetrated into my bones over the past three days.
After a few minutes, I shake Paul gently awake and help him move closer to the fire. He is groggy, but conscious and able to move over. He tries to tell me things, but it is nonsense at this point. I whisper into his ear and tell him to rest. He listens to me and closes his eyes, quickly nodding off again.
I pull the rabbit from the bag, which is now full of blood. I am able to jam one of the sticks under its white fur and skin. After some work, I am able to remove the head and get my fingers beneath the lining of the skin, and with my fingers and the sharp end of the stick, I rip as much of the skin from the body as I can. I take the same stick and jam it through the mouth of the rabbit. Then I hold it over the fire like a child might hold a marshmallow at a campfire. I could never have imagined myself capable of taking a life, never mind dressing and eating it, too. Who am I?
The fire is hot, and the aroma makes my mouth water, and then I imagine what a bear or a wolf might think. My heart sinks, and then I decide that I can’t control everything. Cook the rabbit; eat the rabbit.
I take the rabbit stick and slide the stick end between two rocks and let the rabbit dangle near the fire. I rub Paul’s back and then wrap myself around him to try and keep him warm. I look up to the sky. It is overcast and cloudy. There’s a big cold world out there, but I believe this little fire is enough to keep us warm, if only for a few hours.