I get what he’s doing. Using the stream itself as an ice pack to both clean his wound and help reduce the swelling. Not a bad idea, especially given the day’s abuse of his already-concussed brain.
It takes both Miggy and me to get him in position. We all end up wet. And yet, the second the back of Neil’s head makes contact with the cool stream, his sigh of relief is palpable.
Miggy and I stay on either side of him, squatting in the rocky streambed to help cradle his neck. We’ll need to get out of these wet clothes the second we return to the tree hollow. Bundle up for the impending chill. But for now, witnessing Neil’s badly needed respite, it’s worth it.
“If the chopper doesn’t make it tonight . . . tomorrow I walk. No travois . . . litter . . . death trap. Done.”
Miggy and I both nod, then exchange glances above Neil’s head. Rescue chopper had better make it tonight.
Finally, Neil’s had enough. We help him sit up, then give him a moment to get his bearings. Miggy examines the head wound by the beam of his flashlight. I think it looks slightly better, but that could be more fanciful thinking on my part.
Neil holds out his arms; we help him to standing. At least his steps back to our little encampment are stronger than the ones he took away from it.
We lower him onto a trash bag. Miggy peels off Neil’s soaking-wet T-shirt. I dig out a long-sleeve top from his pack, then add a flannel shirt and jacket over that. Miggy handles the redressing, then tends to his own clothes.
I turn my back to the men to strip off my top layers. Then realizing how much I soaked my pants in the stream, I change out of them as well. We’re all much too exhausted to worry about things like modesty.
I pull on all the layers I have left in my pack, then grab one of the crinkly blankets and wrap it around my shoulders. I’m still cold. We all are.
“Fire?” Miggy asks Bob softly.
“The smell of the smoke . . .” Bob shrugs. In other words, no.
We all nod morosely, no one surprised. We’re a pathetic little crew. Terrified and wrung out, but hanging in there. One by one, we peer up at the sky. Looking, listening, for a sign of our imminent rescue.
Not yet.
I recover Josh’s stash of chocolate candies and start doling them out. We each get three mini peanut butter cups, though Bob tries to wave his off.
“I’m not that into chocolate.”
“Everyone’s into chocolate. Come on, we all need each other to remain as strong as possible. Take them.”
Bob eyes the gold foil with longing, then caves with a sigh, snatching up the candies and cradling them like precious gems. I understand. I can’t decide whether to eat mine or simply inhale the intoxicating scent over and over.
Just yesterday, I promised myself that if I survived this expedition, I’d never eat granola again. Now, I think if I just survive this trip, I’ll never complain about granola again.
One by one, we polish off our treats. Scott produces two PowerBars. We break them into thirds, creating six shares for five people. Scott hands the extra share to Bob. “Because you’re, like, twice our size.”
Bob looks tempted to argue again, but Scott’s voice is firm, his logic sound.
We finish dinner, such as it is, and return to staring at the sky.
“Time?” Neil asks quietly. So far, he’s managed not to vomit up dinner. More signs of progress.
“Nine thirty,” Miggy supplies.
“How long, do you think . . .” Scott, glancing at Bob.
“Not sure. I’ve never been medevaced before. They gotta locate an available chopper, summon the volunteers, arrange some supplies. Might be closer to midnight. Or”—he hesitates—“they’ll launch first thing in the morning.”
“Nemeth will push them to come sooner versus later,” Miggy murmurs.
We all nod. What Nemeth wants, Nemeth gets. Finally, we’re grateful he’s such a stubborn ass.
“Either way, we have a few more hours to kill.” Bob pauses, clearly regretting his word choice. Then Neil starts chuckling and Scott starts laughing and next thing, we’re all rolling on the ground like punch-drunk hyenas because he said kill and that’s probably exactly what’s going to happen next.
Bob manages to pull it together first. “Sorry.”
I giggle again, slap a hand over my mouth. Hiccup.
“Guard shifts,” Bob manages this time. “Watch duties.”
Miggy glances around our encampment, then back at Bob. “We could set up an overwatch position. One of us in a tree, with the rifle. Better line of sight, not to mention better angle for shooting.”