Chapter 4: The Basin

Trevor's SUV was still behind us when Nolan started driving again.

It followed for two miles, then slowed, then turned around at a wide spot in the road.

Nolan watched the taillights shrink in the mirror.

"He'll go home and tell them he tried," he said.

"He did try," I said. "He tried to get me on camera."

"The comment's gone."

I looked at his phone on the dash.

The pinned line from the account with no photo had vanished, and so had the account.

"Sable Creek," I said.

"Not a word of that," Nolan said. "Those are the terms."

"I wasn't going to say it."

"Good."

The cabin sat at the end of a spur road.

Its green metal roof was buried under a foot of new snow.

Nolan carried my wet clogs in one hand and held the door with the other.

Inside, it smelled of woodsmoke and coffee.

A cot stood against one wall, with a wool blanket folded square at its foot.

A map of the creek drainages was pinned above a desk, with the oldest corner curling.

"Sit," he said. "Take off your socks."

I sat on the cot and peeled the socks down.

My toes were white at the tips and stiff.

"They'll hurt in a minute," he said. "That's good."

He knelt on the plank floor, filled a basin from a kettle, and tested it against his wrist.

"Warm, not hot. Hot does more harm than the cold did."

"You've done this before."

"I've done a lot of it."

He took my left foot in both hands and lowered it into the water.

The ache came as he said it would, sharp and then deep, and I hissed through my teeth.

"Breathe," he said.

"I am."

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