Page 17 of Double Exposure

I swallow more warm water. He rises and brings over the tea kettle from the woodstove and pours steaming water into the mug, plucks the teabag from my fingers and dunks it.

“I have to file a report you know. The park service is going to want answers, and I’m a lot easier to talk to.” He wipes a hand over his face. “You don’t want to be talking to Pike Hanson, that’s for sure.”

I shrug under the blankets and close my eyes. Wind howls against the door and shakes the windows.

“Where’s the—Ryan? Is that right?”

“My brother? He went out in this to radio and get a helicopter.”

This seems impossible. “A helicopter can—?”

He shakes his head. “No, not now, the storm is too strong. We’re stuck here until the morning.”

The fire in the wood stove pops and he moves to throw on another couple of logs. When he opens the door, heat radiates and it makes me shiver again.

He sees this and, after shutting the door, he lifts a metal flask from the mantle.

“This is Bourne’s—the old man who lives here in the summer. I can’t vouch for it.” He hands it to me and I take a sniff. “You really shouldn’t have alcohol, but in lieu of no hospital, go for it.”

It’s not brandy. It’s tequila. I take a sip. Really good tequila. It burns my throat. I take two more shots from the flask and then hand it back to him. The liquor slides down easy: earthy, herby and peppery. This is from the lowlands. I spent nearly two months with my father in Jalisco photographing reptiles. It’s also the state where the city of Tequila lives.

I learned a lot about tequila there.

Carter doesn’t drink any and caps the flask. He then tucks it next to him between his thigh and the arm of the sofa. “I’ll get glasses next time.”

Speaking of time . . .“What time is it?”

He glances at a large watch on his wrist. “Nearly six now. So, it’s official. We’re staying the night.”

“What happens in the morning?”

“Ross comes with the helicopter and we get you to a hospital.”

I try to stop the panic in my chest. “I can’t leave here.”

“Are you in trouble? Better tell me because I’ve already warned you about Pike Hanson.” He smiles.

I close my eyes again and think about the avalanche, the pressure of the ice and snow, being found, pulled free, and carried here.

I shift on the sofa. I have to trust him.

He settles himself across from me, sitting on an old brown chest doubling as a coffee table.

“I can't get into it right now. I just . . . I can't leave this area.”

“Well, you're in no shape to do anything. You need at least a day or two to recover.”

I shake my head. “I can't afford a day or two.” I reach for the flask again. He hands it over almost apologetically, as if he’s forgotten he’s still holding it.

I take another sip. “Oh man,” I say as I start to shake. “What’s happening?”

He’s swiftly on his feet, his arm around me, helping me back to the mattress by the fire. Flames flicker behind the sooty glass window. My entire body starts shaking. Badly.

He gets me under the heavy layer of multiple covers. I try to push the blankets away. “Too hot,” I try to say. A window rattles.

Dad is out in this.

“It’s my dad,” I say quickly, in between paroxysms. My teeth start to chatter so hard I can barely speak.

Carter’s telling me something about hypothermia again, but I can’t hear him. All I can do is keep focused on the story and try to tell it.

A story that could ruin my father’s reputation.

A story I don’t know the ending to.

Then Carter does what I think I must have willed him to do. Laying down behind me on the narrow mattress, he takes me in his arms—simply holding me against him, spooning, as I tremble. The paroxysms cycle through, over and over, and he never leaves me. He lays on the mattress beside me on top of covers, for what seems like an hour, his arm holding me close, his legs pressed against mine.

Caught between tears and exhaustion, I don’t know when sleep finally comes.