Alone in the Wild(4)

Shouldn’t we do something about that?

Yes. Yes, I should. I am a homicide detective, and that woman is dead, blood soaking the snow. I should at least see what killed her. But I have this baby, and it needs me more than she does. I look up, noting treetop patterns and the sun’s position and distant landmarks so I can find this spot again.

Then I take off.

There is a fresh surge of panic as I leave the clearing and realize that, having been lured by the baby’s cries, I’d paid no attention to my surroundings. Why the hell didn’t I pay attention—

Snow, you idiot. You walked through fresh snow.

The path back to our campsite is as clear as a bread-crumb trail. It might meander, and yes, a voice inside screams that I need a direct route, but this is the safe one. I take off at a lope … until I stumble and realize, with horror, that if I fall, I’ll land on the baby. Slower then. Step by step. The baby is breathing—was breathing …

No, none of that. There isn’t time to stop and check. I’ve left room for it to breathe, and if it managed to survive under a blanket of snow, swaddled beneath its mother’s jacket, then it will live through this. As long as it wasn’t already too far gone—

Enough of that.

I tramp through the snow for what seems like miles. Finally, I see our campsite marker high above my head, and I divert to a more direct route. The closer I get, the faster I go. When I jog across big boot prints and smaller paw prints, I stop short.

Dalton. I’ve been in such a blind rush that I’ve completely forgotten I’m not alone out here, and I nearly collapse with relief at the reminder. I don’t care whether Dalton knows the first thing about babies. He’s here. I am not alone.

“Eric?”

No answer. I call louder as I continue toward the campsite. I shout for Dalton. I call for Raoul. I whistle, and Storm bounds ahead, as if this means her co-parent and pack mate are back. They aren’t. The camp is still and silent, and I realize the boot and paw prints are from earlier.

I check my watch to see it’s not yet noon. I curse under my breath and keep going into the tent. When Storm tries to follow, a sharp “no” stops her. She whines, but only once, token protest before she collapses outside, the tent swaying as she leans against it.

I left this morning without rolling up our sleeping blankets. I brush the hides flat as quickly as I can. Then I lay the baby on them.

The infant lies there, eyes shut, body still. It hasn’t moved since I left the clearing. I knew that, but I’d ignored the warning, telling myself it’d fallen asleep in relief at being found. As little as I know about babies, I realize this is ridiculous. This is a cold, frightened, hungry infant. When someone came, it should have been screaming, making its needs known now that someone finally arrived to fill them.

I lay a trembling hand on the baby’s still-swaddled chest. I don’t feel anything, but I’m not sure I would with the way my fingers are shaking. I check the side of its neck, and as soon as my cold fingers touch warm skin, the baby gives the faintest start.

Alive.

I fumble to unwrap the swaddling hides. The tiny body gives a convulsive shudder, and I resist the urge to re-swaddle it. The tent isn’t warm, but it’s sheltered, and I need to get a better look at the child.

It is naked under the cloths. A baby girl with black fuzz for hair, her face scrunched up as tight as her fists. I take a deep breath, push aside emotion, and begin an assessment of her condition. That isn’t easy. I realize how cold her hands and feet are, and I panic. I notice her shallow breathing and shivering, and I panic. I see her sunken eyes, and I panic. But I keep assessing.

Dehydration. Mild hypothermia. Possible frostbite.

Her breathing is clear and steady. Heartbeat is strong and steady. Body is plump and well nourished. These findings calm and reassure me, and then I can turn my attention to the problems.

Triage. Frostbite, then hypothermia, then dehydration.

I wrap her loosely in her blankets and add a thick hide one. Then I systematically warm her hands and feet, first against my bare skin and then under my armpits. Warm, do not rub. My hands against her button nose and tiny ears as my breath warms those.

Now to replenish body fluids. I can tell she is dehydrated, but I can’t determine severity.

She needs liquid. That’s the main thing. I don’t have any food for her. I tamp down panic at the thought that I have nothing even resembling milk. Water. Focus on getting her water.

I hurry out to grab the canteen. Then I stop. Dalton will have it, because I won’t need it at camp, where I can melt snow.

Melt snow.

I snatch up the pot and stuff it to overflowing with snow and spin to the fire …

The fire is dead.

Of course it is. That’s why I’d left in the first place: to gather kindling, which I abandoned back in the clearing where I found the baby. I’ve been gone long enough that the fire is reduced to ash. It’ll take forever to get it going enough to melt water.

Stay calm. Stay focused. I am surrounded by water in partly frozen form. I can do this.

I empty the pot. Grab a handful of snow. Squeeze it in my fist, and watch the water run into the pot. Grab another … and see black streaks on my hand. It’s probably soot, but it looks like dirt, and that reminds me that my hands are not clean.

Sterilize. That comes from deep memory, a single babysitting class taken with friends, before I realized I was not babysitter material.