Northern Lights

the short wall was scaled.
    He heard engines, the wind and his own laboring breath.
    He dropped down beside the boy and, despite Meg's instructions, felt for a pulse. The kid's face was gray, with rough patches of what looked like dried skin on his cheek, his chin.
    But his eyes fluttered open. "Made it." He croaked out the words. "Made it."
    "Yeah. Let's get the hell out of here."
    "They're in the cave. Couldn't make it, couldn't make it down. Scott's sick, Brad—think his leg might be broken. I came for help. I came—"
    "You've got it. You can show us where they are once we're back in the plane. Can you walk?"
    "Don't know. Try."
    Nate fought the boy up, took his weight. "Come on, Steven. One foot in front of the other. You've come this far."
    "Can't feel my feet."
    "Just lift your legs, one at a time. They'll follow. You've got to climb down." He could already feel the cold eating through his gloves and wished he'd thought to double up. "I'm not good enough at this to carry you. Hold on to me, and help me climb down. We've got to get down to help your friends."
    "I had to leave them, to get help. Had to leave them with the dead man."
    "It's all right. We're going back for them. We're climbing down now. Ready?"
    "I can do it."
    Nate went first. If the kid fell, fainted, slipped, he'd break the fall. He kept shouting at him as they picked their way down. Shouting to keep the boy steady and conscious, demanding answers to keep him alert.
    "How long since you left your friends?"
    "I don't know. Two days. Three? Hartborne didn't come back. Or . . . I think I saw, but then I didn't."
    "Okay. Nearly there. You're going to show us where your friends are, in just a couple minutes."
    "In the ice cave, with the dead man."
    "Who's the dead man?" Nate dropped down on the glacier. "Who's the dead man?"
    "Don't know." The voice was dreamy now as Steven slithered and slumped into Nate's hold. "Found him in the cave. Ice man, staring. Just staring. Got an ax in his chest. Spooky."
    "I bet." He half dragged, half carried Steven toward the shuddering plane.
    "He knows where the others are." He pushed, then climbed in to pull Steven into the plane. "He can show us."
    "Get him in the back, under the blankets. First-aid kit's in the bag. Hot coffee in the thermos. Don't let him drink too much."
    "Am I still alive?" The boy was shivering now, his body quaking from the cold.
    "Yeah, you are."
    Nate laid him on the floor between the seats, then covered him with blankets while Meg lifted off.
    He heard the wind and engines screaming, and he wondered if they'd be ripped to pieces now after all.
    "You need to tell us where your friends are."
    "I can show you." With his teeth chattering, he tried to take the cup of coffee Nate poured.
    "Here, let me do it. Just sip."
    As he sipped, tears began to leak out of his eyes. "I didn't think I'd make it. They'd die up there because I couldn't make it down, to the plane."
    "You did make it."
    "Plane wasn't there. He wasn't there."
    "We were. We were there." Doing his best to brace himself against the jolts of the plane, Nate carefully lifted the coffee again.
    "We almost got to the top, but Scott was sick, and Brad fell. His leg's hurt. We got to the cave, we found the cave and got in before the storm hit. We stayed in there. There's a dead man."
    "So you said."
    "I'm not making it up."
    Nate nodded. "You'll show us."

 
     
     
    NINE
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    NATE HATED HOSPITALS . It was one of the triggers that shot him back into the dark. He'd spent too much time in one after he'd been wounded. Enough time for the pain and grief and guilt to coalesce into the gaping void of depression.
    He hadn't been able to escape it. He'd longed for the emptiness of sleep, but sleep brought dreams, and dreams were worse than the black.
    He'd hoped, passively, that he'd die. Just slide soundlessly away. He hadn't considered killing himself. That would have taken too much effort, too much activity.
    No one had blamed him for Jack's death. He'd wanted them to, but instead they'd come with their flowers or sympathy, even their admiration. And it had weighed on him like lead.
    Talk of therapy, counseling, antidepressants barely penetrated. He'd gone through the motions, just to get doctors and concerned friends off his back.
    He'd gone through the motions for months.
    Now he was back in a hospital and could feel the soft and sticky fingers of hopelessness plucking at him. Easier, so much easier to give in, to