I'm on my hands and knees, crawling toward the dog. "Wolf. Wolf, hey, buddy, look at me."
Afon arrives there a second later. He drops to his knees in the red snow on the other side of Wolf and puts his hand on the dog's heaving side.
"He's breathing," Afon says. "Shoulder. Through the meat, maybe."
"Maybe?" I'm crying. "What do you mean, maybe?"
"Let me look."
The dog is down in the snow now, panting on his side. There's red shining bright against the white near his hindquarters. He lifts his head and looks at Afon and his tail moves once, weakly, thumping the snow.
I have never seen Afon's face do what it does now. Every wall he's ever built, every inch of concrete, is gone. He crumbles in the snow beside the dog and rests both hands on him, as he lets loose a single, broken sob.
"No," he says. "No, no, you stupid, brave idiot."
A snowmobile whine. Closer.
Afon's head snaps up. The fixed, hunted look comes back, but it's cracked now, broken down the middle.
"They're regrouping," he says. "More will be coming. We can't stay."
"We can't move him?—"
"We're not fucking leaving my dog." His voice doesn't allow for argument. He gets one arm under Wolf, gathers him up against his chest, and the dog whimpers but goes limp and trusting in his embrace. "Get our stuff. As much as you can carry. Now."
I run back to the camp to grab the duffel, the blanket, the binoculars. The phone's still in my pocket. When I get back, Afon is on his feet with Wolf cradled to his chest and blood soaking into his sweater, his and the dog's both, and he's looking down the slope toward the road.
"There." He nods east. "One of them must have come in by truck. Had to. They didn't haul this many men here on snowmobiles." He starts moving, fast, down the rise. "Stay behind me. If we find the truck, we'll take it."
We slip through the trees. I can hear the snowmobiles behind us, two of them now, circling, looking. Afon doesn't run a straight line. He weaves, uses the forest as cover, keeps us off the open ground. Wolf is silent in his arms except for a thin, terrible panting.
Then I see what we're looking for. Down at the tree line where the woods meet the road is a pickup, dark blue, dusted with snow, the driver's door hanging open like somebody left it in a hurry.
"There!" I gasp.
"I see it."
We break from the trees. Afon goes around to the passenger side and lays Wolf across the bench seat, gentle as anything, thensays, "Hold him. Keep pressure on the wound, hard as you can, both hands."
I climb in. I arrange Wolf's head in my lap and my hands on the wound. When I press, the heat of his blood comes up through my fingers. He looks up at me and I make myself smile at him.
"You're okay," I tell him. "You big goof. You're okay."
Afon slams the door and goes around. The keys are in the ignition, thank God, so he cranks it and the engine catches. He throws it into reverse, backs it hard onto the road, then drops it into drive and we go.
As soon as we start to accelerate, a snowmobile bursts from the trees behind us. A man on the back of it raises a gun. Afon doesn't slow down. He keeps the gas pedal flat-out down the snow-packed road, taking the curves at a suicidal speed. Little by little the snowmobile falls back. It can't match us on the open road. A shot pings off the tailgate. Then another, wide.
Then nothing.
We come around a bend and the trees close behind us. They're gone.
None of us says anything for a long time. There's just the engine, and the heater clicking on. Thank God, there's also still Wolf's breathing under my hands.
"He took that bullet for you," I say finally. "Wolf…"
"I know." Afon's hands are tight on the wheel. He won't look away from the road. "I know what he did."
"He's going to be okay, right?"
