“You’ll be fine, miss,” someone in a uniform said, his face too close, his nose spread like a mushroom in the middle of his face. “We’re airlifting you to the hospital in Anchorage.”

“Matthew,” she said, clutching his collar with her one good hand, yanking him close.

She saw his face change. “The boy? He’s behind you. We’ve got him.”

He didn’t say Matthew would be fine.

*   *   *

LENI OPENED HER EYES SLOWLY, saw a strip of overhead lighting above her, a line of glowing white against an acoustical tile ceiling. The room smelled cloyingly sweet, full of flower arrangements and balloons. Her ribs were wrapped so tightly it hurt to breathe and her broken arm was in a cast. The window beside her revealed a pale purple sky.

“There’s my baby girl,” Mama said. The left side of her face was swollen and her forehead was black and blue. Wrinkled, dirty clothes told the tale of a mother’s worry. She kissed Leni’s forehead, pushed the hair gently away from her eyes.

“You’re okay,” Leni said, relieved.

“I’m okay, Leni. You’re the one we’ve been worried about.”

“How did they find us?”

“We looked everywhere. I was beside myself with worry. Everyone was. Tom finally remembered a place his wife had loved to camp. He went looking and found the truck. Search and Rescue saw some broken branches on Bear Claw Ridge where you fell. Thank God.”

“Matthew tried to save me.”

“I know. You told the paramedics about a dozen times.”

“How is he?”

Mama touched Leni’s bruised cheek. “He’s in bad shape. They don’t know if he’ll make it through the night.”

Leni struggled to sit up. Every breath and movement hurt. There was a needle stuck in the back of her hand, and around it a strip of flesh-colored tape over a purple bruise. She eased the needle out, threw it aside.

“What are you doing?” Mama asked. “You have two broken ribs.”

“I need to see Matthew.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“I don’t care.” She swung her bare, bruised, scratched legs over the side of the bed and stood. Mama moved in close, became a stanchion of support. Together, they shuffled away from the bed.

At the door, Mama lifted the curtain and looked through the window, then nodded. They slipped out; Mama closed the door quietly behind them. Leni inched painfully forward on stockinged feet, following her mother down one corridor to the next until they came to the brilliantly lit, coldly efficient-looking area called the intensive care unit.

“Wait here,” Mama said. She went on ahead, checking rooms. At the last one on the right, she turned back, motioned for Leni to follow.

On the door behind her mother, Leni saw WALKER, MATTHEW written on a clipboard in a clear plastic sleeve.

“This may be hard,” Mama said. “He looks bad.”