“I think so,” I gasped.

“Have you seen Tim?”

“No,” I said. “Oh, father, you’re hurt!”

“It’s just a stone bruise,” he said, touching his leg where it was purple and red. I knew even then that he was only trying to jolly me along, for it was obvious that his leg was broken beneath the knee. A bit of bone protruded from the skin, and blood dripped down his ankle. I got to him as quickly as I could and tore off my shirt. “Give me your knife,” I ordered, and it is a measure of the confusion and pain in which he found himself, for he accepted my orders the same as he would have from another adult. I tore a strip from my shirttail and tied it around his leg, using a broken stick as a temporary splint to keep his leg from crumpling under him.

He winced as I cinched the knots but didn’t complain. He drew in his breath in a shuddering gasp and said: “Lizzy, we must find your brother.”

“You stay put,” I said. “I’ll find him.”

“He may need more help than you can give,” he said.

“If so, I’ll call for help. Please—your leg is broken. If you move on it, it’ll only get worse.”

It was evidence of his weakened state that he only touched my cheek and whispered, “Hurry, Lizzy!”

I set off downstream, wading in the shallow water along the bank. I called, “Tim? Tim? Answer me!” But I heard nothing.

It was hard going. I remember how easily I had answered my father when he asked me what to do if I got lost. The truth is, you’re lucky to make two or three miles a day with such soggy going.

“Tim! Where are you?”

There was no answer. I was the smallest and lightest of the three, and I had come off with only a water-logged stomach. My father’s leg was broken, and he had been in the best position of the canoe, in the rear, where it would not have struck him when it turned over. What could have happened to Tim, caught in the middle, as it shot into the air?

I never would have seen him, except that he had caught the floating, canvas-wrapped pack and dragged it to shore with him. He was collapsed over it, unconscious. All I saw was the brown lump of the pack, which is what kept me from walking past him.

I rushed over and shook his shoulder. “Tim! Tim!”

He moved his head, so he was alive. I threw water in his face. Perhaps, after where he had been, he needed no more water, but at least he moved.

“Lizzy,” he gasped, “is it you?”

“Do you hurt anywhere?”

He touched his legs, his arms, his belly. “Yes,” he said. “I hurt everywhere. But I don’t think anything is broken.” He sat up, his eyes wide. “Where’s Dad?”