Chapter 6: One Sleeping Bag

The storm hit while we were walking back.

It came across the lake as a gray wall, and in the time it took Freja to shout my name, I couldn't see my own hands.

The guides blew whistles and shouted for everyone to follow the rope line to the shelter.

I found the rope with my glove and followed it, towing the sled behind me.

Somewhere ahead, a hand grabbed my sleeve.

"It's me," Freja yelled over the wind. "The rope's gone. Somebody's cut loose."

"Where's the group?"

"I can't hear them."

We stood in white noise with the snow stinging our faces.

The temperature had dropped so fast that my goggles were iced over.

"Tent," I said. "We can't reach the camp. We pitch the emergency tent from the sled."

"Can you do it?"

"I teach chemistry. I'll do it badly, but I'll do it."

It took us twenty minutes.

We hammered stakes into the drift and fought the poles with numb fingers, and Freja held down the flapping fabric with her whole body.

When we finally dragged ourselves inside, the wind was a freight train on the other side of the nylon.

The tent was small enough that our shoulders touched.

I lit the camp stove.

Its little blue flame gave off almost no warmth.

"How cold is it?" Freja asked.

"The guide said twenty below with the wind."

"We have one emergency bag."

I looked at the sled.

There was one thick foil-lined sleeping bag, rolled up on top of the water jugs.

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