The Overnight Guest(11)

With a groan, Wylie pushed herself to her knees using only her left hand. She flexed her fingers and bent her elbow, quickly scanning her right arm for any major damage. It hurt, but Wylie didn’t think it was broken. She crawled forward until she was right next to the child.

She wasn’t sure what to do. Should she try to move him? He obviously had a head injury, but what if he had a spinal injury too? She needed to call for help but would an ambulance be able to get all the way out here in this storm? She didn’t think so.

“Hey,” she said, wiping a film of ice from his pale cheek. He didn’t react. She pressed her finger beneath his nose. Was he breathing? She couldn’t tell. Wylie inhaled deeply, tried to gather her wits. She had no medical training but knew that she had to get the boy inside and warm, or he would freeze to death.

She slid her arms beneath him and was relieved when his body shifted easily. He wasn’t frozen through. She began to slowly get to her feet. He weighed thirty pounds maybe, much lighter than she thought he would. She positioned him so that they were chest to chest, his head on her shoulder, his thumb still firmly between his lips.

Her sore arm supported the back of his head while her healthy one held the bulk of his weight. The trick would be getting him back to the house without falling.

She was only fifty yards from the front porch, but it felt like a million miles. Inch by inch, she moved her feet forward, clasping the boy’s cold body against her, pausing each time she felt the ground shift beneath her. Tas crept along at her hip, stopping when Wylie did.

Wylie looked over her shoulder. The road was no longer visible. The miles of fields beyond the road, swallowed by the storm. Where had the boy come from? Nothing could survive out here for long.

Wylie tried to push the thought away and focused on the earth below her. Despite his slight frame, the boy was dead weight, and Wylie’s uninjured arm began to ache. She resisted the urge to sprint toward the house. She would never make it without falling. Instead, she focused on taking a step with each breath.

The welcoming twinkle from the house was a guidepost. The snow was coming down now in dizzying whorls and frosting them white.

“Hang on,” she whispered into his ear. “We’re almost there.” Did he move? Or was that just Wylie shifting his weight a bit as they trudged forward?

Dreadful thoughts kept creeping into her head. The boy’s cold cheek was pressed against her neck, and she feared she was holding a dead child in her arms. What if help couldn’t come? She could be snowed in for days. How in God’s name could she sit in a house with a child’s body until help arrived?

Only ten more yards, and they would be at the front door. The instant Wylie’s foot transitioned from gravel to the concrete walkway, she knew they were falling. With a cry, she pressed the boy to her, clasping his head tightly in hopes of protecting it from the impact.

Somehow, she was able to land on her knees and kept the boy from hitting the ground. The concussion of bone on cement sent spasms through her legs. Tears of pain and frustration sprang to her eyes. She didn’t know how she was going to be able to get to her feet.

Tas looked at her, his eyes laden with judgment. Hurry up, he seemed to be saying. You’re not going to give up when we’re so close, are you?

The boy’s head lolled against her shoulder, and a small gasp escaped from his lips. Wylie nearly cried with relief. He was alive. Wylie repositioned his weight and got back to her feet, her muscles screaming with exhaustion. Her lower back protested beneath the weight of the boy, but she kept going inch by inch until she was finally at the red front door.

Carefully lowering her hand from the boy’s head, she reached for the doorknob and twisted. It swung open, and Tas muscled his way inside first. Breathing heavily, Wylie laid the child over the threshold and onto the colorfully braided floor mat. The boy emitted a soft moan. Using the doorjamb, Wylie pulled herself to her feet, staggered inside, and slammed the door behind her.

She ran to the kitchen. Her broken cell phone lay on the counter, useless. Wylie turned to the landline, picked up the receiver, and was met with silence.

That was one of the drawbacks of living in the middle of nowhere. One ice storm and you were guaranteed to lose phone and internet service. “Dammit,” she growled. No one would be coming to help them tonight.

Wylie needed to get the child warm and see how extensive his injuries were. She rushed up the steps and to the bedroom, rummaged through her suitcase for socks and a sweatshirt. Thinking that she would be staying in the farmhouse for only a short time, Wylie hadn’t bothered to unpack. But days had turned to weeks and here she still was. She yanked the comforter from the bed, and headed back down the stairs.

The boy was still lying in the entryway. His eyes were closed, but his thumb was back in his mouth, and his chest was rising and falling rhythmically. Wylie breathed a sigh of relief and moved toward him, her wet boots squeaking against the hardwood. The child tried to open his eyes, but they kept fluttering shut. He lifted his hand to the gash on his head and began crying upon seeing his fingers wet with blood.

Wylie moved forward cautiously and began speaking in low, gentle tones. “My name is Wylie, and I found you in my yard,” she said to the boy. “You bumped your head. Here, let’s put this right here,” she carefully pressed one of the socks she grabbed to his temple. “Can you tell me your name? Do you know how long you were out there? Let me see your hands.”