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Back 3 a.m.
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  67. 3:46 a.m.

The little boy is feeding Lassie water out of his hand.

I take a deep breath.

How do I tell the little boy, convey to him, that I would be asleep for the next twenty-three hours? How do I tell him that he has a better chance of survival, of making it back to Fairbanks, of finding help, if he continues on without me? How do I tell him that I am a one-hundred-and-fifty-pound rock tied to his ankle?

For some reason, this starts me thinking.

Where was Ingrid? Did she die at the hands of the earthquake? Was she alive, mourning my death? Did the news travel to my dad? What if I survived? What if I found my way back to her? What if she ended up giving birth to a little boy? How would I tell him that daddy was going to go lie down for a while, that I wouldn’t see him again for twenty-three hours?

The little boy holds onto Lassie’s hurt paw, inspecting it closely. Lassie winces and the little boy pets his head in apology.

I grab a stick and walk back to the two of them.

I sit down next to him Indian-style (or Eskimo-style.) I extend my wrist and point at my watch. I say, “I need to lie down now.” I steeple my hands together and lean my head on them like a pillow. “I’m going to be asleep for twenty-three hours.”

His thin eyebrows furrow.

I show him my watch. It is both digital and analog. I point to the hour hand. “I am going to be asleep until it goes around twice,” I say, slowly tracing my finger around the clock face two times.

I can tell it doesn’t register.

I put up two fingers, then three. “Sleep for this many hours.” I flash my fingers again.

He shakes his head.

Of course he doesn’t understand.

Because it is absurd.

Half the people I tell don’t understand. How is a little kid who doesn’t speak a lick of English supposed to understand?

I point at him, then point up the river. “You keep going. Don’t wait for me.”

He shakes his head.

“Go,” I say, pushing him toward the brush. “You have to go.”

He stares at me, then like the moose, he darts into the brush and disappears.

:09

June 26th

Sunrise 3:13 a.m.

Lassie and I feast on leftover berries for breakfast.

Halfway through our meal, Lassie glares at me. He has something on his mind.

“What?” I prod. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Meow.

“You miss what?”

Meow.

“What is Opik? Is that some brand of catnip or something?”

Meow.

“The little boy? Why did you call him Opik?”

Meow.

“He told you? What, now you speak Eskimo?”

Meow.

“I was not mean to him. He has a much better chance of surviving if he goes at it by himself. We were holding him back.”