I went to the sink, drunk straight from the faucet. Splashed water on my face. Dad’s eyes on me till I finally turned.
I’m sorry, I said again. I was just in the woods—
Just in the woods, he said.
I needed to get away for a while, is all.
I thought you were dead.
My cheeks burned. I said I was—
Yeah, you said. You say whatever you like, then you run off again, and I don’t see you for hours. Days. Just like your mother. That’s going to stop, you hear? No more.
This ain’t the same.
Dammit, Tracy!
Just listen to me! I hollered back. I’m just trying— But I didn’t finish, my head rocked before I understood what happened. Stars flaring before my eyes, then fading. My cheek stinging. Dad’s hand fell to his side, and he stared at me, his mouth hanging open.
I touched my face, but the whole side of my head was numb.
Dad’s voice barely a whisper. Go to your room.
I did. Upstairs, I crawled into my bed without bothering to take off clothes that stunk of my own sweat and grime from all my time outdoors. After a time, Old Su nosed her way into my room, and I motioned for her to jump on the bed. She circled once, twice, then settled near my head, her musky breath in my face. Her fur was grayer than I remembered, her eyes milkier. I stroked her and watched how quickly she found sleep, the sound of her steady breathing almost drowning out Jesse’s voice inside my head. Stop, Tom.
I worried that if I slept, I would dream Jesse’s dreams. That I would see what must of happened after Tom Hatch attacked him.
Her. I said the word aloud and it grated against the silence in my room, tasted wrong on my tongue. I understood what I’d seen and felt, Jesse’s body more familiar than not. But even as I recognized the truth of him, a knowing coursed through me. A certainty that was stronger than skin and hair and bone. Jesse’s body told one story, but the inside of him told a different one. I thought of the taste of his blood on my lips, the shock of uncovering his secret. Once the shock faded, it seemed to me all that mattered was what Jesse knew about himself. What I now knew about him. It was a kind of knowledge that went bone deep, something you couldn’t even question because it was part of you, the way brown eyes or stubby toes is part of you.
I looked for other parts of Jesse’s story, but I couldn’t get away from the weight of Tom on top of me, of the desperation that must of forced Jesse to reach for the rake nearby. I couldn’t find the rest of that memory, but I imagined what must of happened next, Jesse swinging the rake, the ribbons of blood that must of bloomed across Hatch’s face, the scars the wound had left. And then what? Had Jesse started his way north that very moment? I looked for an answer inside myself, but only come up with the same scene behind the red building, the barn, over and over.
When I woke a few hours later, though, Scott was the one on my mind. A memory of springtime, the world gone gray and drizzly, the only bright thing a sparrow on my windowsill, calling to its own reflection. Scott’s strange sadness welling up inside me.
I pushed my blankets back and scoured my bookshelf till I found what I wanted.
Scott was sitting on his bed, papers and colored pencils scattered over his quilt. From the doorway I could see how he’d got the coloring on the sparrow’s feathers just right.
You’re back, he said.
Was you looking for this the other day? I asked and held out A Guide to Common Birds.
He nodded.
Can I come in?
He lifted one shoulder. I sat down on his bed and opened the book to the page on sparrows. It’s this one, I told him. An American tree sparrow. The beak is black on top, like you’ve got it, but yellow on the bottom. See?
He give me a funny look, and I steeled myself, waiting for him to ask how I knew. Instead, he grabbed his eraser. I watched as he made the change, and when he was done, the sparrow he’d drew was almost like a photograph. Like it could fly off the page if it wanted.
Where’d you learn to draw like that? I asked.
You can have it, he said and pushed the picture across the quilt to me.
Thanks, I said. Then, How’s your head? I reached out, and he flinched.
I’m not going to do anything, I told him. I’m sorry I pushed you.
I heard you and Dad yelling, he said.
Yeah.
Why’d you run off?
I shook my head.
Because of Flash? Scott guessed.
It was as good a reason as any. Yeah, I said.
Downstairs, the coffeemaker hissed and spat. Bacon sizzled, the scent of it coming up through the floorboards. I wondered if it was Dad already down there, cooking for us. Or if Jesse was the one making breakfast. My stomach knotted at the thought of him.
That sucks, Scott was saying. He should just let you train. At least then it would be— He shrugged.
Normal? I said.
Yeah.
I slung my arm round him and give him a squeeze. It was easy to forget sometimes that even though he wasn’t keen on racing the way I was, the dogs was still a big part of his life. He helped feed and water them and clean the dog yard as much as I done, and he’d gone to every race start with me and Mom over the years. It took a lot of hands to pack gear bags for the Iditarod and sew booties for the dogs’ feet, and soon as he was old enough, Scott was right there alongside the rest of us, pitching in. I forgot sometimes that I wasn’t the only one with a hole in my life.
I left him starting on a new drawing and went downstairs. Dad’s eyes following me as I paused to give the house dogs a good scratch then poured myself a cup of coffee. I snagged a slice of bacon from the plate next to the stove.
Been a long time since we had bacon, I said.
Been a long time since we had any extra money, Dad said.
I moved for the table but he stopped me. Put his hand on my cheek. It was tender but there wasn’t no bruise, just an angry red spot. I’m sorry, he said.
It’s okay.
No, it’s not, he said.
We sat down and got after our breakfast, Scott joined us before long. But the table seemed oddly empty. You seen Jesse this morning? I asked.
He poked his head in before you come down, Dad said round a mouthful of pancake. Said he wasn’t feeling too good. He’s going to lay low today, I reckon.
I frowned. When we ventured out to feed the dogs, I took note of the shed, the curtain drawn and a finger of smoke curling up from the chimney. All day long I went about my chores, jobs Dad give me to do and my own little projects. I still had dozens of dog booties to sew or mend. When I got out Mom’s old sewing things, I glanced at Dad, certain he would remind me I wasn’t supposed to be training or even going near the dogs. But he only shrugged. I sat near the door of the kennel while Dad run his saw. Pricked my finger over and over, my attention on the shed.
I thought about knocking on the door. Just to check on him. To say I was sorry. But each time, I seen his face go pale at the name I’d called him. And I felt an urge to run. I seen myself, himself, grabbing a comb, a harmonica, a wad of clothes and stuffing them into my pack, then jumping from a window onto hardpacked dirt. Images, experiences, that come to me on the taste of his blood, they played themselves over and over in my head. His legs, my legs, tired as we come to a slow-moving train, leaped into a car. He had run from trouble, would run again. I sewed booties, chipped piss from the doghouses, split wood, each job brung me closer to the shed till I stood just outside the door, working up the nerve to knock.
But the squelch of tires on soft snow turned me toward the drive. A familiar-looking Jeep rolled in and stopped next to Dad’s truck. The door opened, and I seen it was Helen, the nurse from the clinic. I couldn’t help the way my stomach plunged at the sight of her, even though my head reminded me that Tom Hatch was likely still miles away, still in Fairbanks or back where he belonged, somewhere in the lower forty-eight.