Ever since then, he always slipped a chocolate bar into my sled bag right before a race, when I wasn’t looking.
I finally found it, wrapped in my extra pair of socks, a bar of plain dark chocolate with no filling or nuts inside.
The dogs had already had their treat, but Marcey was never one to turn down any type of food you give her, and some you didn’t. Once, when she was house dog, we left a plate of burgers on the counter and she managed to knock the plate to the floor and eat every last patty. Boomer wasn’t such a pig, but he would still eat nearly anything, plus he had a sensitive stomach. I snapped the chocolate bar in half and offered both dogs a piece. Marcey practically swallowed hers whole while Boomer held his between his paws and daintily bit off smaller pieces.
Both dogs weighed enough, the amount of chocolate I give them wasn’t likely to do real harm, just make them sick. By the time we got back to the starting line, they would probably be shaking and panting, maybe even vomiting. For now, they both sat on their haunches, licking their lips and waiting to see what I would do next.
I walked up the line to my leader. When I’d needed a replacement for Flash, I’d settled on Peanut because of his sharp sense of direction, he always seemed to know the way to go, even on a trail new to him. But he was also a trial. Ornery and obstinate, downright difficult when he wanted to be, of all our dogs he was the most likely to wriggle out of his collar and run off if he was feeling restless. It wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine he might experience one of his ornery moods just a few hours into a race and give me the slip.
The moment he heard me unclip his harness, Peanut bounded away, springy with energy after a snack and some rest. I whistled, and he come racing back, then passed me, headed in the right direction now, back the way we come. Good boy, I called after him. He paused, looked back with his tongue hanging out, his ears perked. When he seen I didn’t mean to follow right away, he barked, then took off, a dog on the loose.
I tried to take my time clipping Marcey, then Boomer, into the sled’s basket. No telling exactly how long it would take for them to start showing they was sick from the chocolate, and I needed evidence that I couldn’t possibly of kept racing. But Hatch was on my mind, him and the minutes that separated us, each one adding to the next, till we was hours apart, him ahead of me, and me scrambling to catch up. My hands shook as I put Grizz in the wheel position where Boomer had been, now it was up to Stella and Zip to lead. The dogs had been patient enough while I’d dosed Marcey and Boomer, but when I stepped onto my runners they went crazy, barking and jumping and tugging on lines. I pulled the snow hook and let them take me west long enough for them to run out their back-on-the-trail jitters. I scanned the horizon and seen I was alone, no other teams or race officials in the distance.
Then I hollered, Come gee! and we turned, headed back the way we come.
The sun dropped out of the sky trailing pink and orange, till there was only a thin band of light on the horizon and a half moon hanging in the sky. The early evening seemed to fill the dogs with adrenaline, they pulled with real enthusiasm over a trail dotted with dozens of paw prints and runner marks. Time to time, I hopped off the sled and run alongside uphill, when I jumped back on, my heart was pounding not just from the small effort but from how close I was to home. To the truth.
The trail back seemed twice as long as when we’d run it earlier in the day. At every small rise, I squinted into the distance hoping to see a snow machine’s headlights, but it was more than an hour before I finally spotted a race official. Both Marcey and Boomer was shivering and panting in the basket.
I threw out my snow hook then waved my arm.
Got a little turned around, didn’t you, musher? he said when he pulled his ATV up next to my sled.
You seen a loose dog? I asked. My leader got away, and now I got two sick ones in the basket.
Marcey picked that moment to start retching. She made a hacking sound, nothing come up yet, but it got the race official’s attention.
I haven’t seen your runaway, he said, but I’ll radio to the other officials. Meantime, we’d better get you back to the start so the vet can take a look at your dogs.
Can you have someone find my dad, too? I asked. Bill Petrikoff. He’s camped out near the start.
You’re Petrikoff’s kid? He frowned, shook his head. Well, that’s too bad, you dropping out. Y’all have seen enough bad luck for one family, I’d say.
Don’t worry, I told him. I’m running the big race next week. That’ll put us back on track.
He grinned. That a girl, he said. Follow me.
His radio squawked as he turned his ATV round. I whistled at the dogs, and we fell in behind the official, following him down the trail at a too-slow speed for my taste. I practically bounced on my runners, more anxious the closer we got to the start.
When we finally reached our destination, it wasn’t no longer a start but a finish. Race volunteers had already erected the big arch with its banner that read junior iditarod finish! in giant, bold letters. For the second time that day, I had to stand fast against a wave of regret. I imagined the next afternoon when the first musher come gliding across the snow, greeted by a cheering crowd. Parents whose faces would beam with pride. I ended my run with Dad jogging over to meet me, wearing a look of concern.
You okay? he said and put his arms round me.
I don’t know what happened, I told him, it must of been something they ate.
I gestured at the two dogs in the basket, both of them had got diarrhea by now and my sled bag was sprayed with shit. The vet had already come over and was unclipping Boomer from the rig.
And then Peanut— I said.
He’s in the truck, Dad said. Steve found me when Peanut showed up about half an hour ago. What happened?
I shook my head. I didn’t have to pretend to be upset, standing under the finish arch with two of my dogs being ferried away by vet techs while fourteen other mushers was gathered round the bonfire at Yentna Station by now, chatting about the day’s run and the condition of the trail. My eyes went hot and my throat filled with a stone I couldn’t swallow.
Dad hugged me again. We were worried, Trace. I know Peanut likes to run off, but— His turn to shake his head.
I cleared my throat. Can we just go home? I asked.
It took longer than I’d hoped. The vet checked Marcey and Boomer, then give them both something to make them vomit. She frowned as they horked up half-digested kibble and asked, Any chance they got hold of some chocolate somehow?
Then we packed up camp, I worked so fast I had the tent down and my sled bag cleaned up and stowed in the truck before Dad had finished tying my sled to the top of the dog box. I sat in the cab of the truck watching him talk to Steve Inga and trying to not scream at him to hurry up. Finally, he settled behind the wheel.
You know, the roadhouse is still open, he said. We could drive into the village, get something to eat—
No! I practically shouted the word. I mean, I really just want to go home. If that’s okay.
Sure it is, he said and turned the truck onto the highway.
We was closer than ever to home, closer with every mile we drove, yet it already seemed too late to me. Too much time had passed, wasted on packing and talking and running part of a race I never should of signed up for. I gripped the handle of the passenger side door so hard my whole hand went pale. I could see home before we was anywhere near it, different versions of it. All the windows of the house dark while a shadow emerged from the woods and got closer, closer. Tom Hatch standing over Scott’s bed while Scott slept, Hatch slinking room to room, searching for Jesse’s pack, startling at Helen’s voice asking what he was doing there. Bodies left bloody on the floor by Hatch’s own hand. That same hand pounding at the shed door till it burst open, Jesse shouting as Hatch pounced, finally finding what he’d come north to find.