Free Ice Dogs by Terry Lynn Johnson Page B

sounds close.
    â€œWhat—?” Chris gasps in my ear. An answering howl rises up again. With many voices.
    â€œWolves,” I tell him.
    â€œI know it’s wolves,” Chris hisses. “I’ve heard them on TV. But it’s so different when they’re
live
. Actually right
there
in the dark.”
    Chris shuffles and his knee jabs me in the ribs. “Whoa, my arm hairs are standing up! Man that’s spooky. They sound like they’re right in camp.”
    The dogs rustle nervously outside so I push aside the flap on the sled bag and sit up. Freezing air attacks me. Once I’m out of the dimness of the canvas bag, I see the cloudless night sky lighting our campsite with the glow from the stars and half a moon. The hairs in my nostrils stiffen as I inhale.
    I see the outlines of all six dogs nestled in a row beside us, but I shine my headlight at them to make sure they’re okay. Their eyes glow back at me. I point the light into the gloom around us, half expecting to see many more shining eyes, but there is nothing. The howling ends abruptly and once again it’s dead quiet except for the cracking trees.
    The embers from the fire are comforting. I wish I could toss more wood on from here, but I’m already shivering again. I scoot back into the bag, shutting off the light, and close the top flap.
    â€œThat’s the wild letting us know it isn’t sleeping.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œWe have to be aware of things all the time. Respect it. Maybe the wolves are just passing through,” I say loudly. “We should make noise to let them know we’re here.”
    Chris bursts into singing at the top of his voice. “There was an old lady who swallowed a fly. I don’t know why, she swallowed the fly . . . ”
    I endure another few minutes of Chris’s campfire songs before he winds down. The dogs have settled now, too. As if the singing comforted them. The thought warms my insides.
    â€œI used to sing all the time when I was younger,” Chris says. “My buddy Cam and I even talked about starting a band. I play guitar, he plays drums. I used to go to his apartment sometimes on the weekends and we’d play video games and practice for our future stardom as musicians.”
    Chris shifts slightly to his right, which means I have to shift, too. We both uncurl then curl like two dragonflies in a hard wind.
    â€œHe had the tallest bunk beds I’ve ever slept in. The top bunk was his older brother’s, but he moved out. So when I stayed over, that’s where I slept. I’m not cool with heights, but I never told him that. Just climbed up to the top of those beds.
    â€œThen one night I woke from a bad dream. I jumped up and the ceiling fan got me in the head. I still have the scar.”
    Chris grabs my hand in the dark and guides it to his forehead. I touch a small, thin bump along his hairline that I hadn’t noticed before. I feel along the ridges for a moment longer than I need to, and suddenly drop my hand.
    â€œYeah, nice scar.”
    I briefly think of telling him about the time I took three dogs with my bike. I had wanted to try Bean in lead. But for some crazy reason, I decided it’d be even more fun with Drift and Gazoo. The first three minutes were the wildest of my life. We tore out of the yard while I perched on the bike with a death grip and wide eyes. The rest of the time I spent on my face dragging along the dirt road. By the time I got them back to the house, my coveralls were ripped to shreds, and I was covered in mud and blood. I still have the scars running down the left side of my belly. Heat creeps up my neck as I think of showing that to Chris.
    â€œI’ve got one here.” I surprise myself by sticking my hand in Chris’s to show him my index finger. His warm fingers run over mine as he searches for my scar.
    â€œWhen I was young, I was feeding peanuts to a squirrel in our backyard.