Harper munches and stares over the steam of her mug. “Why can’t we do this somewhere a bit warmer, like Hawaii?”
“I don’t think the dogs would like that.” I love winter, but I’m used to my friends complaining about it every year, as if it’s a big surprise that snow arrived. “You prefer cart training? I’m always excited when we can finally get on the sleds after it snows.”
“I don’t prefer any of it.” Harper blows across her tea and hunkers down into her coat. “This isn’t really my thing. You might have noticed.”
“Isn’t your kennel full of champions? I’ve seen your name everywhere.”
“My dad’s name, you mean. Mason, my younger brother, he loves it too. My dad couldn’t wait for me to start doing the junior circuit. But I keep finding reasons to be busy. I couldn’t come up with anything for this race, though, so here I am.”
“You don’t like running dogs?” I can’t imagine it. “Why don’t you just tell him?”
“I don’t know. I can’t.”
“He must know you don’t like it. It’s not like you can fake that. You don’t want to tell him the truth? What’s the worst that could happen?”
“You don’t understand. He’s got this way . . . he thinks I can do anything. My grades should all be perfect; my future will be perfect. You know when you’re forced to live up to your parents’ life-crushing expectations?”
I look at her with surprise. She has hidden depths. “Yeah, I think I know.”
“Anyway, I don’t like the cold. I don’t like the speed. I’m just not good at it. It’s scary and dirty and loud. And smelly! I mean, seriously, Titan’s breath smells like garbage juice. It’s so skeevy. All the dogs are too strong. They drag me all over the place. I can’t control them. And I get stressed out with any obstacles. So I guess . . . no. I don’t like running dogs,” she says with a little laugh and a shake of her head. “Like, for instance that highway crossing back there. All I could do was stand on the runners and hang on. I hate stuff like that.”
I grimace. “You didn’t get off your runners when you went across the pavement?”
“Couldn’t. I’d fall and lose them. You have no idea how strong these dogs are.”
“Uh . . . yeah, I think I have some idea.” I indicate my own team.
“Right. Sorry.”
“Did you already change your runners?”
“What?”
I sigh and stand up. “Let’s have a look at ’em, then.”
We flip her sled on its side, and I run my hand down the ruined plastic. Then I realize what I’m doing. Harper’s my competition. Letting her keep these runners on is going to slow her down, especially with her bulk. She’s not light. She’s even taller and broader than me. Her team has to pull against the drag. I should tell her the runners are fine.
Sliding my fingers along the deep gouges, I struggle with the dilemma. I glance at her dogs, eating snow, scratching their backs, legs kicking the air. Nope. I just can’t leave them like this and make her dogs work harder. Plus, if I’m going to beat Harper, I’m going to do it without an advantage.
“You’ve got your spare set?”
“Um.” She stares into her sled, shuffles gear around. “You mean these things?” She holds up a rolled set of quick-change runners.
“That’s them. Should only take a minute.” Bending to her sled, I pull out my knife. I pop the cotter pin loose from the front of the ski, pull out the pin holding the runner in place, loosen the plastic, and then slide it off the back of the track.
“It’s stuck with ice,” I explain as I bang it with the knife handle.
“You’re like my pit crew.”
Once it’s peeled off, I unwind her fresh runner and feed it into the track until it’s all the way on. I pop the pin back in, secure it with the cotter pin, and then flip the sled to do the next ski. Once that’s done, I raise my hands in the air. “And that’s a new pit-stop record, folks, two point four seconds! The fans go crazy!”
Harper laughs, then points to something in the snow. She bends and picks up the mailbag. It must’ve fallen out when I turned the sled over. The letters are scattered all over the snow. I feel a twinge of panic at the thought of the same thing happening with my own bag.
“These things are a nuisance,” Harper says as she kneels. I kneel with her and help scoop up the letters, none of which I can read. Harper pauses over one. “Hey, this one is from G. Desjardins. You think that’s Guy?”
“Sounds like it.” I have to stop myself from asking who it’s addressed to. Wish I could somehow casually pull out Emma’s magnifier. Helpful in occasions like this.
Thankfully, Harper is as nosy as me. She lingers over the envelope. “I wonder why he’s writing to Amazon’s contracting department. Think he’s a corporate spy?”
“Yes, a spy,” I say. “That makes sense, actually.”
“I wonder if any of my friends mailed letters. I could be carrying them.” She sifts through the envelopes, reading. “What about you? Did you read the mail you’re carrying?”
“Uh, no.”
“Any of your friends into this? Or do they think you’re weird for running sled dogs?”
“No. I’ve been doing it since first grade, so my friends are pretty much used to me running dogs. It’s not a big deal.”
“Must be nice.” Harper sighs. “I guess we shouldn’t mess with these. Official mail and all that.” She stands and stuffs the mailbag into her sled.
I peer at her. She’s distorted. I wish the sun would go away. It’s giving me a real headache. Harper notices me squinting. “Here.” She passes me her sunglasses as if it’s nothing. “I have a spare pair somewhere.”
My breath hitches. A subtle relaxing all through my body. If only she knew how much this means to me! I take them from her, not even knowing what to say. When I put them on, I almost cry in relief.
“Thank you! This is . . . I really . . . thank you.”
“So I should probably go out first, right?” Harper says.
“Yeah, okay.”
As we pack up, my appreciation for Harper turns to envy. I try to ignore it. Her dogs are faster; it only makes sense that she goes first. But I can’t ignore the burning in the pit of my stomach. The unfairness of it, that Harper has two perfect eyes and doesn’t use them to run all these fast dogs.
Why do I care so much when people waste their sight? I guess growing up with Em and seeing her loss of freedom along with her loss of vision makes me irritated by people who take perfect vision for granted.
I think about being at the fire last night when they were talking about the Cascades and I wondered if I should quit. But today, I’m not letting an icy cascade of doom stop me from finishing this. I have to do this.
Harper pulls away and I listen until I can’t hear her anymore.
Chapter 17
Race trail, evening
As darkness falls, the bone-deep cold sets in.
Thankfully, we’re protected by the trees as we run this trail. The temperature would feel different if we were still out along the north shore, exposed to the deadly gusts.
I breathe in, and my nose hairs freeze together. I blow out and smile at the white cloud rising in front of me. The air slices my cheeks. Northern lights shimmer above. It’s turning into a glorious night.
Running at night, I don’t have to deal with the sun glare. But the best time of day for me is evening, just before the sun goes down. After that, I have very poor night vision. Good thing the dogs see just fine in the dark. I flick on my headlamp as I rummage in the handlebar bag.
“Where is my neck warmer? I put it right here.”
Sumo flicks his ears back but keeps running. I spy something white and pull out my spare scarf. It blocks the draft when I wrap it around my neck. Toasty and stylin’, I get to enjoy the speed we’re traveling now.
The dogs are flying. Running silent. They love running at this hour, when the smells are close to the ground. This night could not get any
more perfect. Smooth trail without surprises. No glare. No ice. No dangerous highways. Happy dogs.
Sumo’s ears flick back again and then Haze’s and Lizard’s. I glance back, and my headlamp illuminates the dog team behind us, an eerie line of bouncing, shiny eyes. A beautiful long string of them glows in the night. The reflective tape on harnesses also stands out in the light of my lamp.
The lead dog’s eyes shine differently in that team following us. They’re a weird greenish color compared to the others, which are clear and bright like jewels. I’ll bet those weird eyes have a film over them. Even in the dark, Zesty is pretty distinct. I suddenly wonder what my eyes would look like in a reflection. Actually, no, human eyes are different.
I face forward again and some part of me deep down relaxes. It’s nice to run with Guy near. Especially when he’s behind me.
“Augh!” Something thumps me hard in the back of my head.
My foot automatically stomps the drag brake to slow us as I grab hold of my hat. I whip around. Did he throw something at me? Why would he do that?
“Hey!” I scream at him.
“What?” he yells back.
I face forward again, shining my headlamp through the team. My dogs are fine. They’re running in sync, tugs tight. Suddenly, my head is knocked forward by what feels like a two-by-four. I jam on the brake again.
What the—I pull off my glove and reach my hand up to the back of my neck. It feels like blood between my fingers.
Guy’s caught up to us now and I hear him yelling and pointing above me. I scan around and catch sight of something large winging above my head. It flies off and lands in a tree. I shine my light, and two orbs glow back.
“Watch out for the owl!” Guy is screaming.
I rub my neck again. “Owl?”
He stops his team when Zesty reaches me. “What are you wearing? Didn’t you read the sign?”
“No!” There was a sign? “What sign?”
“It said to watch out for the man-eating owls along this trail. It said not to wear hats with pompoms. Tuck in any ponytails!”
Owls attack people? I glance down at my white scarf; it’s hanging out like a squirrel flying in the breeze. Perhaps I don’t need a scarf. But what to do with my braids?
“Go away!” I yell at the owl still sitting on a branch. I peel off the scarf.
“Are you okay?”
“You mean besides the fact that I was just kicked in the head by giant freaking scissors?”
“Now, that’s a good dog name.”
I can’t help laughing as I probe the back of my head. There’s a tender spot and a bit of blood. “I’ll live. Let’s get out of here.” I call the dogs. “Ready, Mustard? All right!”
We lope down the trail again. I didn’t even hear that owl. My sense of hearing is usually so sharp. Yeah, except for when I’m stealth-attacked from behind by a demon with wings.
It nailed me right after I turned on my light. In case that had anything to do with it, I peel my headlamp off and stow it in my sled bag. I don’t even care if I can’t see.
“Yip, yip, yip!” I call, and they speed up.
Maybe we’re past its territory now. Just as I think this, I feel the air move behind me. I shriek. I swing my arm above me and try to box the stupid bird out of the air. Guy is yelling.
And then I notice the icy cold ruffling through my hair. That owl stole my hat!
I brake and set the hook again. Now I need to find my spare hat. My shoulders are hunched in self-protection mode and I’m peering all around with wide eyes.
Guy has stopped his team. He walks up beside me.
“I’m going total ninja on this freaking owl if he comes back, I swear,” I tell him. “Do you have a spare hat?”
He passes me the hat he’s already holding, and something warms up inside me, despite the biting cold. Neither of us has a headlamp on, but in the moonlight peeking through the trees, I can see part of his expression. The shared experience of strange adventure binds us. I feel a pull toward him. Our eyes meet and we both break out in grins at the same time.
“Let’s go,” he says. “Bet you didn’t believe you really would need to protect your ears out here!”
December 17, 1896
Dear Margaret,
We arrived at the Agawa post. I had a surprise awaiting me in the form of your letters! A mystery how they found me, but I am overjoyed they made it on the last boat of the season. Since the maximum load we carry in the sleigh is four hundred pounds, parcels and magazines must wait until the boats can bring them. Alas, any parcel you sent containing cookies is missing. The postmaster most assuredly ate them. Also missing is Anna’s lucky tooth. I will write her and ask for another.
Your loving brother, William
Chapter 18
Gargantua Harbour checkpoint
The commotion in the community center overwhelms my senses.
I’m filling my bucket at the musher station. Not every race has this convenience, so I appreciate the laundry tubs set up for mushers to get hot water to soak their dog food. But there are people everywhere in here.
The sounds of cooking, talking, arguing, scraping chairs, people yelling to one another cross the room. Clothes and winter gear are strung up to dry in every available space, giving off a strong odor of dog and unwashed bodies. The long tables are full of diners clinking their plates and glasses. And the fluorescent lights glaring are too much after my evening run.
And you can tell you’re at a dogsled race because even with all this commotion, from the hallway, incredibly, there’s the sound of snoring. Several mushers are tucked into dark corners where there isn’t much foot traffic. I almost trip over a pair of long sprawling legs, and then I recognize the anorak draped over them. How in the heck can Guy sleep with all this going on? And how did he get his chores done so fast?
I pause. Wait a minute. He’s asleep?
I glance at his bootlaces. Nah, that’s been done. Then I notice a clipboard hanging on the wall next to a coat rack. It has a black Magic Marker attached to it by a string.
Slowly, I uncap the marker and lean over Guy’s head. Being this close, I can finally allow myself to tilt my head and look at him from the side of my vision. He has a nice face. It’s angled sharply at his chin. His Adam’s apple is pronounced. His mouth is usually a little sideways when he talks and smiles, but right now it’s straight. His nose is crooked. His hair is dark brown and tucked behind his ears. My gaze ends at his eyebrows.
I reach out with the marker and touch the space between them. I wait, marker poised. He doesn’t stir. With quick light strokes, I bridge his eyebrows together with a thick black line, giving him a unibrow. I’m considering horns on his forehead when his breathing changes. Hurriedly, I hang the marker back up, grab my bucket, and slip outside to water my dogs.
The trip from the community center to my dogs is harrowing. I stumble on the holes and humps in the snow along the dark path while lugging my bucket of water. It’s a miracle I don’t wipe out. I’m wearing a good part of the water by the time I make it to the truck. The dogs are up and wagging their tails. My family must be having dinner in the community center because there’s no one around. Good. Easier that way. And no risk of questions.
But as I find the bowls in the back of the truck, I feel some disappointment. I wish I could talk with them. I’d like to hear what Em thinks of all the excitement. I want to sit with my mom to ask her race strategies. I want to tell them about how well the dogs ran today, and I want to hear my mom tell me not to worry about the Cascades. That I’m a strong musher and I can do it. Even if she doesn’t know about my sight challenges, I need that kind of reassurance. It’s been a long time since we’ve talked, though. Really talked. I wouldn’t even know where to start.
I’m scooping chicken water into bowls when someone walks up behind me. “McKenna, you were right.” It’s Harper. She sounds different. Excited.
“About what?” I drop a bowl in front of Lizard, and he gives me
a big smile as he waits for me to fill it.
“I took—oh, that dog has a lot of teeth. Yeah, so I took your advice and talked to my dad about mushing. I sort of told him that I’m not into it. And you know what he said? I don’t have to run any more races!”
“Really?” I look up from filling Lizard’s bowl. “That’s kind of . . . surprising. Are you glad you told him?” I imagine telling my parents what I need to tell them and once again feel a small envy for Harper and her uncomplicated life. It’s not like I can just tell my parents the truth and everything will be fixed.
“Well, yeah, except there’s one condition: I have to win this race. He said if I win this, he’ll let me keep the purse and it can be my last one.” Lizard slops bloody water over Harper’s boots, and she moves out of the way.
“Oh.” Maybe her life is more complicated than I thought. Why would her dad not let her stop unless she wins? What a jerk. “Well, you are winning, right? You’ve got a fast team. You could do it.”
“Not anymore. They just put the times on the board inside. The top teams after today are Bailey Gant and Marc Bondar, then me, then Bernard Laberge. You and Guy are after that.” She ticks the names off on her fingers. I feel a thrill that I’m in the top five.
“So for the next leg of the race, I have to go faster. I need to get a better time than Bondar and Gant. Can you, like, follow me and be my pit crew the rest of the way?”
“If I was fast enough to be able to follow you the whole way, I’d be trying to beat you,” I tease.
“Right. Well, I’m going to have to get serious now. I just wanted you to know that I really need this to be my last race ever. Anyway, I’m gonna go hork down some lasagna before it’s all gone. The community donated it for the hero mail couriers. Super-cheesy, right? But a big glob of cheese and noodles sounds delicious right about now. See you at the fire later?”
“Yup!”
Aspen is ignoring her water. I crouch down, hook a piece of chicken, and offer it with my fingers. She tentatively licks at it. A glob of fat next. She sucks it out of my fingers, then licks them clean. Soon she’s got her face in her bowl and is drinking.
Dog Driven Page 7
