; The panic surges on a wave of indecision. Run the baby back to our tent and unwrap it there. No, unwrap it here, quickly, and make sure it’s fine.
The baby makes a noise, too weak now to be called a cry. The child’s eyes are screwed shut. They haven’t opened since I picked it up.
A bitter wind whips past, and I instinctively clutch the baby to my chest. That wind—and my reaction—answer my question. Get to the tent, to shelter. It’s only a few hundred feet away.
I open my jacket, and as I do, I curse myself for being a spoiled brat. Last winter, I’d fumbled around in oversize outerwear, and I’d grumbled about it, and the next time Dalton did a supply run, he returned with a new jacket and snowsuit for me. Naturally, he bought me a sleek, down-filled parka that fits perfectly, meaning I have to hold the baby against my sweater, jacket stretched only partway across. A quick second thought, and I turn my coat around, leaving an air pocket at the top.
The whole time I’m fussing, Storm whines, which only fuels my panic. Her anxiety feels like a lack of trust. That’s only me projecting, but I snap at her to be quiet. Guilt surges as she ducks her head, and I pat it quickly, murmuring an apology, knowing this is what she really wants: reassurance. I’m freaking out, and that’s freaking her out, and she needs to know everything is okay.
Once the baby is secured, I start from the clearing. Storm woofs, and I turn to see her staring at the woman’s body.
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.