“This is going to hurt a lot,” Abe warned, crouching beside him. “Like hell’s devil dogs are chewing your balls off.”
Damian’s brows lifted, but he gave a faint smirk and his gaze held steady.
Abe braced the arm, angled it low, and gave a swift, practiced jerk.
The pop was loud. Damian hissed through clenched teeth but didn’t cry out. Sweat dotted his brow.
“I’ll be right back.” Abe sprinted to the bedroom, grabbed one of Uncle Gage’s old flannel shirts, and returned. He fashioned a makeshift sling, slipping Damian’s arm through thefolded fabric and tying it behind his neck. “Not perfect, but it’ll hold till help comes.”
He steadied Damian, then stepped back. “You okay?”
A short nod.
“Good. I need your help.”
Abe turned to the hallway closet, shoved aside a stack of batteries, and hauled out a dusty tackle box. Inside sat the old HAM radio Gage insisted they keep, long after the world moved on to cell towers and satellite links.
Abe hadn’t touched it in years. “I hope this thing works. And pray that the antenna’s not buried under a snowdrift.”
He set it on the counter. Damian pushed past him, one-handed, and flipped it open. His long fingers moved as if by memory, flicking latches, twisting dials. His knuckles were raw. His hand shook, but his touch stayed steady.
“You know how?”
Damian grunted and hit the power. A red light blinked on. Static burst through the kitchen.
Abe blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Damian adjusted the frequency, then paused. He pulled the mic toward him... then held it out to Abe.
Right. Since the accident, Damian hadn’t spoken a word.
Abe took the mic. “Mosby Cabin Fourteen. Medical emergency. One female, early thirties, possible adrenal crash, head injury, unconscious. One male, dislocated shoulder, possible concussion. No power. No cell signal. Requesting immediate assistance. Over.”
Only static replied.
He tried again. Nothing.
Damian disappeared into the tackle box again, found an old Maglite, and limped onto the porch. Through the open doorway, Abe saw him lift the flashlight to the tree line and begin to flash:
Three short. Three long. Three short. S-O-S.
Of course. Morse code. Why hadn’thethought of that?
He tried the SAT phone again while Damian’s light pulsed rhythmically through the storm. His half-brother—half-lost, half-forgotten—was doing what family did. Showing up.
Daphne stirred, and Abe rushed to her side.
“Hey, sweetheart. You’re okay.”
Her eyes fluttered open. Unfocused at first. Then they found his face… and beyond him, to Damian on the porch.
“You two...” she whispered. “You’re here.”
“We’re here,” Abe said. “Both of us.”
A faint, feverish smile tugged at her lips. “Don’t hate each other.”
Abe swallowed hard.
