Chapter 5

5

Present Day

Wylie clapped a cold, chapped hand to her face and bit back a scream. A child. A child was lying in her front yard. She trudged through the snow toward him and instantly lost her footing, pitched forward, and broke the fall with her right arm. She felt the bone give and waited for the snap. It didn't come.

The flashlight slid across the ice, spinning like a roulette wheel until it finally stopped, its beam illuminating the unmoving child. He glistened like an ice sculpture.

Wylie lay there, just a few feet from the child's face, momentarily stunned. His eyes were closed, his thumb in his mouth. A small river of blood trickled from his head. She couldn't tell if he was breathing.

With a groan, Wylie pushed herself to her knees using only her left hand. She flexed her fingers and bent her elbow, quickly scanning her right arm for any major damage. It hurt, but Wylie didn't think it was broken. She crawled forward until she was right next to the child.

She wasn't sure what to do. Should she try to move him? He obviously had a head injury, but what if he had a spinal injury too? She needed to call for help but would an ambulance be able to get all the way out here in this storm? She didn't think so.

"Hey," she said, wiping a film of ice from his pale cheek. He didn't react. She pressed her finger beneath his nose. Was he breathing? She couldn't tell. Wylie inhaled deeply, tried to gather her wits. She had no medical training but knew that she had to get the boy inside and warm, or he would freeze to death.

She slid her arms beneath him and was relieved when his body shifted easily. He wasn't frozen through. She began to slowly get to her feet. He weighed thirty pounds maybe, much lighter than she thought he would. She positioned him so that they were chest to chest, his head on her shoulder, his thumb still firmly between his lips.

Her sore arm supported the back of his head while her healthy one held the bulk of his weight. The trick would be getting him back to the house without falling.

She was only fifty yards from the front porch, but it felt like a million miles. Inch by inch, she moved her feet forward, clasping the boy's cold body against her, pausing each time she felt the ground shift beneath her. Tas crept along at her hip, stopping when Wylie did.

Wylie looked over her shoulder. The road was no longer visible. The miles of fields beyond the road, swallowed by the storm. Where had the boy come from? Nothing could survive out here for long.

Wylie tried to push the thought away and focused on the earth below her. Despite his slight frame, the boy was dead weight, and Wylie's uninjured arm began to ache. She resisted the urge to sprint toward the house. She would never make it without falling. Instead, she focused on taking a step with each breath.

The welcoming twinkle from the house was a guidepost. The snow was coming down now in dizzying whorls and frosting them white.

"Hang on," she whispered into his ear. "We're almost there." Did he move? Or was that just Wylie shifting his weight a bit as they trudged forward?

Dreadful thoughts kept creeping into her head. The boy's cold cheek was pressed against her neck, and she feared she was holding a dead child in her arms. What if help couldn't come? She could be snowed in for days. How in God's name could she sit in a house with a child's body until help arrived?

Only ten more yards, and they would be at the front door. The instant Wylie's foot transitioned from gravel to the concrete walkway, she knew they were falling. With a cry, she pressed the boy to her, clasping his head tightly in hopes of protecting it from the impact.

Somehow, she was able to land on her knees and kept the boy from hitting the ground. The concussion of bone on cement sent spasms through her legs. Tears of pain and frustration sprang to her eyes. She didn't know how she was going to be able to get to her feet.

Tas looked at her, his eyes laden with judgment. Hurry up , he seemed to be saying. You're not going to give up when we're so close, are you?

The boy's head lolled against her shoulder, and a small gasp escaped from his lips. Wylie nearly cried with relief. He was alive. Wylie repositioned his weight and got back to her feet, her muscles screaming with exhaustion. Her lower back protested beneath the weight of the boy, but she kept going inch by inch until she was finally at the red front door.

Carefully lowering her hand from the boy's head, she reached for the doorknob and twisted. It swung open, and Tas muscled his way inside first. Breathing heavily, Wylie laid the child over the threshold and onto the colorfully braided floor mat. The boy emitted a soft moan. Using the doorjamb, Wylie pulled herself to her feet, staggered inside, and slammed the door behind her.

She ran to the kitchen. Her broken cell phone lay on the counter, useless. Wylie turned to the landline, picked up the receiver, and was met with silence.

That was one of the drawbacks of living in the middle of nowhere. One ice storm and you were guaranteed to lose phone and internet service. "Dammit," she growled. No one would be coming to help them tonight.

Wylie needed to get the child warm and see how extensive his injuries were. She rushed up the steps and to the bedroom, rummaged through her suitcase for socks and a sweatshirt. Thinking that she would be staying in the farmhouse for only a short time, Wylie hadn't bothered to unpack. But days had turned to weeks and here she still was. She yanked the comforter from the bed, and headed back down the stairs.

The boy was still lying in the entryway. His eyes were closed, but his thumb was back in his mouth, and his chest was rising and falling rhythmically. Wylie breathed a sigh of relief and moved toward him, her wet boots squeaking against the hardwood. The child tried to open his eyes, but they kept fluttering shut. He lifted his hand to the gash on his head and began crying upon seeing his fingers wet with blood.

Wylie moved forward cautiously and began speaking in low, gentle tones. "My name is Wylie, and I found you in my yard," she said to the boy. "You bumped your head. Here, let's put this right here," she carefully pressed one of the socks she grabbed to his temple. "Can you tell me your name? Do you know how long you were out there? Let me see your hands."

The boy shoved his hands behind his back. He probably had frostbite, and Wylie wasn't sure what to do about that. Was she supposed to run his hands and feet under hot water? That didn't sound right. She thought it was the opposite—she was supposed to rub the affected area with ice. But what if she was wrong and made things worse?

"We have to get you out of those wet clothes and get you warmed up," Wylie explained.

The child continued to cry. Wylie laid the sweatshirt on the floor next to him. "Take off your wet clothes, and I'll put them in the dryer for you, okay?"

The boy abruptly sat up, looked around, eyes darting around, for an escape route. His gaze landed on the front door. "You don't want to go out there," Wylie said in a rush. "It's still snowing and really slippery. Is that what happened to your head?" Wylie nodded to the gash at the boy's temple. "Did you hit it on the ice?"

The boy didn't respond but got unsteadily to his feet. He looked to be about five years old with thin, pinched features made more pronounced by his ragged buzz cut.

"Can you tell me your name?" Wylie asked. "Where you're from?" He remained silent. "Once the phone lines are up again, I can try and call your mom and dad for you."

The boy continued to look around like a trapped animal. She wasn't even sure if he understood her. He trembled inside his baggy sweatshirt and too-short jeans.

"You must be freezing," Wylie said, stating the obvious. "You need to get out of those clothes." Wylie took another step toward him, and he reared back as if burned. "It's okay," Wylie said in a rush. "I'm not going to touch you if you don't want me to."

Wylie didn't know what to do. She couldn't force the child, and she didn't want to frighten him any more than he already was.

"I know you're scared, but I promise you I'm here to help you. Dry clothes are right there, and I'll put the blanket here on the couch." Wylie retrieved the comforter from the floor and laid it over the arm of the sofa. "When you're ready, you can change and sit here and get warm."

Wylie paced the floor. A strange child was sitting in front of her. Distressed and injured. What the hell was a kid doing out in this kind of weather, and where were his parents?

"I really need you to tell me your name," Wylie said, her voice rising with panic.

The boy shivered, but he didn't answer. The skin on his face was an unnatural grayish-yellow. She had visions of his fingers turning black or his heart stopping due to hypothermia.

Wylie needed to get the boy out of the wet clothes. She slowly advanced on him. She reached out to lift his damp sweatshirt, and the boy emitted a blood-curdling scream that bounced off the walls. Wylie managed to snag the elbow of the shirt and started to pull him toward her.

"You have to get out of those wet clothes," Wylie said through her teeth. "You're shivering. You'll get sick. Let me help you change your shirt."

The boy lashed out. His elbow landed squarely on Wylie's cheek, and she fell backward, releasing her grip.

"Dammit, I'm trying to help you," Wylie said, pressing her fingers to her bruised face. The boy scrambled behind a wingback chair and peeked around the corner at Wylie.

Why was she so bad at this? She could never find the right words for Seth and could never seem to make things better for him. And now, here was this strange child, and once again, she was making things worse. Hot shame filled her chest.

"Fine," Wylie said, getting to her feet. "Stay in your wet clothes, but you're going to be miserable."

She turned her back on the boy and walked into the kitchen. She tried the phone again. Still dead. She needed to get him warmed up. She rifled through the cupboard until she found a box of hot chocolate mix.

As she filled the kettle with water and placed it on the stove, she realized she blew it. The kid was still in his wet clothes, and now he trusted her even less. Wylie understood, though. She was a complete stranger; of course he was terrified.

Making the twenty-five-mile drive to the emergency room in Algona was impossible in this weather. Wylie would have to figure out a way to care for the boy at home. She'd clean his cuts and make sure he was covered up and close to the fire, and she would keep him hydrated and fed. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was a start.

She ripped open a packet of hot chocolate and poured it into a mug and added the hot water. Hot chocolate was good, right? All kids loved cocoa. She'd use it as a peace offering.

Hot liquid sloshed over her hand. "Dammit," she muttered. She couldn't give the boy scalding cocoa. She reached into the freezer, scooped out a few ice cubes, and dropped them into the cup.

Wylie carried the steaming mug to the living room and glanced to the spot by the front door where she had last seen the boy. He wasn't there. Her eyes swung to the couch. Tas lay there, sleeping, but there was no boy. Wylie scanned the room. The boy wasn't there. She checked the dining room and opened the closet doors. She checked the bathroom and even went back into the kitchen.

He was gone.