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I shoulder the air rifle and march back to Runner, pull his rifle through the loops of the tent’s straps and imagine I’m a horse pulling a cart. And off we go. He’s heavy, but once we are moving, the tent’s smooth bottom makes dragging him easier.

Now I’m glad the ground is flat. I’ll have to get a few kilometres between us and the dog carcasses before the sun sets.

After only a few hundred metres, I’m sweating. Every half hour, I check the bandage around Runner’s throat. It’s soaked. There’s only one other roll of gauze in the first aid kit. All he does is look up at me through half-closed eyes, not saying a peep.

The sun is now as high as it gets these days. A milky round thing, hovering behind my back, stretching my shadow. When I turn around, I can still see the dead dogs — small dark blotches in the snow. Not far enough for us to be safe. But I need a break, every single bone in my body is aching, and Runner has to drink. He’s lost too much blood.
 

Gently, I lower his head to the ground, take the backpack off his lap, and place it next to him. My backpack follows. I eat a handful of snow to quench the burning in my throat, then I take a closer look at Runner. His face is pale and unmoving, his mouth slightly ajar. If it weren’t for the faint huffs of condensation, one would think he’d stopped breathing long ago.

I fetch the second roll of bandages, the disinfectant, and small strips of tape. ‘Runner?’ I say, and he starts. ‘Do you know how much of the morphine I can use on you?’

‘Syringe…half-full.’

‘Okay.’ I pick up the syringe, poke it in the bottle, and pull the plunger up halfway.

‘Air bubble,’ he grunts.

Air bubble? I look at him, then at the syringe. Okay, air bubble, got it. I push it out and a small drop of clear liquid runs down the needle.

‘Inject here.’ He holds out his trembling hand. His voice sounds a tad clearer, but his face doesn’t look one bit better. ‘There.’ He points to a vein that stands out at the side of his wrist. ‘Like this.’ His finger shows me where to insert and at which angle. And I just do it. The needle goes in, the plunger goes down, and Runner relaxes at once. ‘Be quick,’ is the last thing he says before his eyes flutter shut.

Yeah, like I know what I’m doing.
 

The bandage is stiff with blood, it sticks to itself and to his skin and I’m worried I’ll tear the wound open even more. I press snow to the layers of gauze, let the meltwater soften the caked blood, and then carefully peel off the bandage. There’s a long gash from the side of his jawbone down to the collar of his torn jacket. I undo the straps of the tent around him, and open his sleeping bag and the jacket. There’s blood on his chest, his sweater is torn, and I can see his shirt and the cuts across his chest.

I turn away from the sight and press my face into the snow. I’ve never stitched up anyone. I suck at sewing up holes in my own clothes, and I’ll surely suck even more at doing a suture on a wound.

But there is no one else.

I place the first aid kit next to me and get to work. The largest injury needs to be closed first, so I push Runner on his side and pull the sleeping bag close around his chest.

Blood oozes from the gash. The only good thing is that the big artery isn’t cut. Or maybe it’s not good. Maybe a quick death would be better than this slow one from a botched surgery.
 

I spray a little of the disinfectant around the wound and he doesn’t even twitch. The morphine is doing its job. I use the clean parts of the bandage he’d worn and dab off blood, spray more disinfectant, dab off more, until I can see where I can stick the needle in. I don’t know if this is where one
should
sew, but I can’t think of anywhere else. Put flaps of skin and flesh together, make sure there are no crinkles. Maybe.

The first stitch is the worst. The sound of the skin breaking and the thread pulling through. It’s as if the snow muffles all other noises and amplifies the
snaaaarf
of thread through flesh. Runner doesn’t complain, but his mouth is a thin line and his jaw muscles bulge. I ignore it and keep working.

It’s an ugly suture. I disinfect the area and bandage the wound with the last fresh pad and the one unused roll of gauze. Then I push him flat on his back and cut his sweater and shirt open along the middle. The dog has left teeth marks down to Runner’s collarbone, and scratch marks down to where his ribcage ends. The wound on the collarbone needs stitches, the rest can be taped. The hair is a problem, though. No tape will stick to that fur. At least the collarbone isn’t hairy, so this is where I start.

After stitching up this wound and cleaning the chest wounds, I fetch one of my clean shirts and cut it in two, fold the one half and lay it over the injuries. Luckily, his body isn’t hairy all over, just the top of his ribcage and not the sides, so this is where I tape my fresh shirt to his skin. I cut away the entire front of his bloody shirt, because it’s too wet to keep him warm. Then I sew up the front of his sweater, and zip the sleeping bag closed.

His breath comes in shallow bursts now that he’s surfacing.
 

‘I’ll make us tea.’

‘Too close to the dogs,’ he whispers.

‘I know. We both need hot tea and food. Then we’ll leave. I’ll not discuss it.’

I prep the burner, connect it to the gas tank, and turn snow into boiling water. Sad-looking peppermint goes into it and by then, Runner is sleeping.

While sipping the hot tea, I wrack my brain as to whether I should wake him up or let him rest. He’s lost too much blood and needs liquids. I empty my cup, wash it with snow, and then put a little snow in the tea so he can drink it without burning his tongue. I pour the rest of the tea in our thermos. ‘Runner? Runner, come on, you need to drink something.’
 

No reaction.

I form a small snowball and hold it to his lips. Meltwater drips in his mouth, but he isn’t swallowing. I touch his head but find no injuries there, not even a bump. ‘Runner!’ I shout, and before thinking twice, I slap a handful of snow in his face.
 

‘Orrhhhh!’ One hand goes up and he flicks at the cold stuff. I wipe his face clean. His eyes are half-open.

‘Here, drink this.’

Holding up his head, I press the cup to his mouth. He drinks and I’m so happy my whole face cracks open in a big smile.
 

‘Sweet.’

‘What?’

‘Blood loss,’ he whispers. ‘Need something sweet.’

I fetch him a few of the dried berries and he chews them slowly. I sneak in a few slices of dried meat, a bit of frozen butter, and more tea.

‘How far…’ His hoarse voice is faltering.

‘Far enough,’ I lie. He tries to push himself up and his face looks all green. ‘I’ll shoot you if you don’t lie back down,’ I say quickly. I think I can hear a quiet snort, but it could also be the sound of Runner passing out again.

I strap him into the tent, put his backpack on his thighs, pack the burner, thermos, cup, and food, and begin pulling him north.

———

He’s been shaking since I pitched the tent. I’m really worried now. Truth be told, I’m close to panic. The sun is setting faster than my frozen fingers can set up the ground pads and my sleeping bag. I feel like lying down for a very long time. But Runner and I both need to eat and drink.
 

I make tea, cook instant pasta, add powdered ketchup and freeze-dried cheese. Our dinner looks like what comes shooting out of a skull together with a bullet.
 

I shovel food into my mouth. Oh, delicious calories! I add a large chunk of butter, stir, and put some into Runner’s mouth. After two spoonfuls, he turns his head away.

‘You leaked quite a bit. You must eat to fill yourself up again,’ I say.
 

‘Not hungry.’

‘Eat or I’ll leave you in the snow tomorrow morning.’ That doesn’t seem to increase his appetite.

‘Are you cold?’ I ask, although I know he is.

‘Yes.’

‘Good. We make a deal. I warm you after you’ve eaten half of this.’

He exhales a large cloud, and turns his face to me.
 

‘Thank you,’ I say, although not very friendly, and shove two noodles into his mouth. He takes his time chewing, but it seems that the noodles in his stomach are asking for company. I feed him another two, and again, and again. Every tiny spoonful that goes in lifts a bit of the weight off my shoulders.

‘Micka,’ he says after he’s had a cup of tea (which again made me very happy). ‘I’m sorry, but…’

‘What?’ Is he going to announce his last will?

‘Need to pee.’

I burst out laughing. Then I realise what it means. He can’t get up. Or can he?

‘Help me sit up.’

That voice doesn’t sound like there’s enough air left for anyone to sit up. ‘Okay,’ I say, and my hands hover undecidedly over his chest. There’s nowhere I can grab to lift him without tearing his wounds open, so I slip my hands under his back and start pushing. We reach some kind of upright position before he slumps back down with a groan.

‘We’ll solve this,’ I say, although I have no idea how.

‘The pot,’ he mutters and I think
NO WAY that’s where I cook my food!
And that’s actually where our noodles are right this moment.

‘Can’t you…aim?’

‘Umm. Not today.’

I’m thinking hard but can’t come up with anything but the pot. ‘Finish the food first.’ I’m almost proud of myself to have such a brilliant blackmailing technique. He takes a few more spoonfuls of pasta and I scrape out the rest. Okay. That’s the moment of truth, I guess.
 

‘Should I…I mean, do you need…help?’

‘I hope not,’ he grunts and takes the pot from my hand. I busy myself with cleaning the fork and packing up the burner.

‘Spread this around the tent,’ he says, once he’s done.

‘Are we marking our territory?’

‘Yes.’

Runner is trembling like a poplar leaf. I don’t know what else I can do to help him. He wears my woollen hat on top of his own, and on top of all that is his sleeping bag’s hood. Underneath his down sleeping bag, he wears his sweater and mine, his pants, long-johns, and two pairs of socks. He looks like a fat black caterpillar about to explode.

I clean the pot, stash away the burner, and rub my face with snow. The tips of my fingers are white with frostbite and I can’t feel much when I try to unzip Runner’s sleeping bag. Careful not to hurt him, I slip into his down cocoon, my back snug against his stomach, my sleeping bag spread over the two of us. He wraps an arm around me, tugs his feet in between my ankles, and tries to suck heat from my body. ‘Runner?’ I whisper.

‘Yes?’

‘How do you feel?’

‘C…cold.’

I take his hand and slip it under my sweater. It feels like a limp fish against my stomach. ‘Th…thanks,’ he says and presses his wiry frame closer to mine. When hot breath blows through my hair, I know he’s running a dangerously high fever.

Desperate, I blink saltwater from my eyes. The village must be close. I’ll make it…maybe another day or two.

I know I should sleep to have enough energy to drag him across the snow tomorrow, but I don’t dare. I’m afraid to wake up next to a corpse and there’s nothing I can do to pump life back into him. The tent gives me a headache. For the lack of trees, I can’t pitch it out of reach of the dogs. Not that I’d be able to throw Runner three metres high up in the air…

Exhausted, injured, and lying on the flat ground with only a thin sheet of fabric separating us from thirty hungry beasts, we are as vulnerable as it gets. I reach out and pull Runner’s rifle close, flick on the torch, and check the chamber the hundredth time to make sure it’s loaded. Then I move the box with the ammo next to me. I click off the light and prick my ears.

There’s nothing but silence.

Slowly, Runner’s shivering ceases.

———

I wake up to scraping noises. I must have twitched so hard from the shock that Runner wakes up, too. ‘Shhh,’ he whispers.

A
tap tap tap
through soft snow — small paws…a brushing against the skin of our tent.

Probably a stupid fox. I exhale and close my eyes.

———

An earthquake wakes me up. My stomach is hot. I’m sweating. After a moment I realise it’s not the tent shaking, but Runner’s trembling. His feverish hand is pressed against my belly.

‘Runner?’ I say and wriggle out of his grip. He cracks his eyes open. They are glassy. His cheeks are red, his jaws clenched. My first thought is rabies; Zula talked about it once and it sounded like a fairy tale gone bad.
 

I unwrap the bandage around Runner’s neck and reveal a swollen, scarlet wound. Pus oozes from the suture. Hastily, I pull off the two pullovers he’s wearing, undo the bandage covering his collar bone and the shirt-bandage on his chest. All injuries look awful and infected, but the bite-wound on his throat is the worst. I open the tent, scoop up a handful of snow, and place it on the neck wound. His body snaps to attention. He looks up at me for a moment, and slowly shakes his head no.

I slap more snow on him and snarl, ‘One day. One day is all I’m asking!’

‘’kay…’ he whispers and I can see he doesn’t mean it.