Page 11 of Double Exposure

The small cabin looms in the weird twilight to our right, boarded up and shuttered for winter.

Ryan kicked snow away for a smooth entrance to the one room cabin. Both our skis rest on the porch to the right of the door. There’s an old rusted out hibachi, a small pile of bricks, two buckets filled with ice and a hatchet—all left behind by Jacob Bourne before he migrated south. Ryan meets me at the door and I swing inside, striding over to a long brown sofa which has clearly seen better days.

At least the place is already somewhat warm.

Ryan holds her as she slides off my back, but before her feet touch the ground, I turn and catch her. If her foot is broken the last thing she needs is a hard landing. I swing her into my arms again. When I set her on the sofa, she can barely sit up on her own. Quickly pulling off my gloves, I put both hands on either side of her face, leaning down into her view. Her eyelids flicker—she’s nearly unconscious.

“We need to take your wet clothes off.”

She nods. That’s as close to consent as we’re going to get. I start to unzip her parka. Well aware she’s a woman alone with two men she doesn’t know, I keep talking to her.

“I’m going to tell you everything I’m doing, okay?”

She nods again and a long twist of hair slips out from under the light blue hood.

“Blankets?” I ask Ryan quietly. It’s then I see he’s set out three folded up on a ring-stained end table.

Ryan has also pulled Bourne’s old twin mattress in front of the woodstove which is already throwing some serious heat. After pulling her limp arms through sleeves and pulling off the parka, I kneel next to the sofa where she’s half sitting so she is sure to focus on my face. Her body quivers.

“I’m going to take off your snow pants,” I say. But there’s a problem, we need to deal with the boots.

“Jade,” I say, her booted foot in my hand, “if you think you broke your ankle, we should keep the boot on. It’ll help with the swelling.”

Her eyes fly open and she looks at her foot as if surprised it belongs to her.

“What? No.” She shakes her head. “I didn’tbreakankles.” She tries to push my hands away but her attempt is uncoordinated and she swats at the air. Even if every bone in her body were shattered, she would probably deny it.

Her pants are soaking wet. Ever so gently I start to unlace and release the clasps on both ski boots. Pulling them off at the same time won’t give her chance to focus on one foot more than the other.

Other than her mouth opening slightly and a sharp intake of breath, she gives no indication of pain when I slip them off. She doesn’t even raise her head. I hand them to Ryan, who sets them on a wooden chair next to the parka so they can dry .

The button on the top of the snow pants opens easily but it’s the sound of the Velcro zipper cover than makes her lift her head.

“What’re doing?” Her voice is raspy.

“I have to get you out of these clothes.”

“No,” she says trying to bat my hands away. But there’s no dexterity. It's sort of like fighting someone holding pom poms.

I grab both her hands in mine. “Listen to me, you're not thinking. I have to get you out of these clothes. They’re wet. And this place isn’t warm enough yet.”

The fire pops. She looks around befuddled. Then, with a forgotten sweetness, she starts to rise, reaching up with one hand as if to touch my face and then it drops. Her mouth opens, her eyes roll, and she faints, her hands slipping from mine. I catch her as her body goes limp.

The suddenness of this is scary.

“Help me get her out of this quick,” I tell Ryan, pulling off her gloves.

I feel for her pulse. Her skin is as cold as ice and the small beat in her wrist flutters beneath my thumb.

Ryan and I push her limp arms through an underlying blue fleece. Next come leggings and I peel those off. Her long underwear feels dry though, and it’s wool. This is key. There’s a saying, cotton kills, and it’s true. Cotton stays wet and wool wicks moisture away. She was smart to wear three layers.

Peeling her out of her leggings takes seconds. I toss them to Ryan who drapes them on the chair to dry next to her other wet things.

These long underwear are dry too. Thank God.

Ryan rolls a ratty looking blanket under her legs, to elevate her feet. Through all this, her flat mane of black hair tumbles damp and wild around her face. Her skin is white, luminous in the darkened room and her lips are a dull purplish-blue. She’s not shivering anymore—a sign she’s definitely in a deep state of hypothermia.

Ryan opens a blanket and smooths it over the mattress. “Transfer?”