Crackle, tsch!

“I repeat, this is call sign AL7VU. We have a medical emergency and require assistance, over.” I speak slow and steady into the handheld receiver.

Tsch, vwoow, crackle.

“Coming in broken AL7VU, did you say you have an emergency? Over.” A static filled voice finally fills the room as I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Roger that, there was a small plane crash about two miles from our coordinates. A Cessna went down and we recovered one passenger. She’s alive but unconscious. She needs someone to come take her to a hospital, over.”

All I hear is white noise, the station is as snowy as the fat flakes beginning to pile up on my windowsill outside. I want to smack the side of the radio and make it smarten up, but I know it won’t do a lick of good. That’s just another quirk of living out here, communication, like everything, depends on the weather. And in Alaska, there’s a lot of weather.

“There’s a heavy snowfall warning for the entire area. There are no planes going in or out for at least a week, over.”

Shit.

I rub the corner of the receiver against my forehead and pinch my eyes shut, a week? What the fuck are we supposed to do to keep this woman from dying then? I’ve seen enough death and destruction in my life, you wouldn’t think the idea of losing a complete stranger would grip my gut so tight. But the thought twists inside me, tearing me up. Somehow, losing her would be harder. After pulling her from the wreckage and doing everything we could to save her life, I know her beautiful face would become another ghost haunting me out here, and I’ve got enough of those as it is.

“That won’t do,” I protest in vain. “She’s unconscious and needs real medical attention. A week is too long! We have a truck here, should we try to get her to Fairbanks? Over.”

“Another plane crashing won’t help anyone.” The voice gets terse. “Neither will a car accident. Do you know how to care for an unconscious victim? Over.”

“Yeah, I think so, over.” I sigh.

“Make sure she’s not vomiting, that there’s no clear or straw-colored fluid coming from her ears or nose, monitor her for confusion, check her breathing,” he rattles off a bunch of points like he’s reading them off a website.

“We got all that,” I cut him off. “So, what do you suppose I should do if straw-colored fluid starts pouring out of her ears then? Since you can’t send anyone for a week, maybe you could give me a hint about how I’m supposed to deal with that, huh? Or if she starts puking everywhere, then what?” I manage to talk through grit teeth.

Tsch, crackle, waah.

Is that it? Did the line die? It’s not like it makes much difference if it did. Obviously, the answer is: deal with it. If they can’t send out any help for a week, it doesn’t matter if she’s throwing up or if she’s power spewing across the room while her head spins around, Exorcist style, either way we’ve got to figure it out on our own.

No pressure or anything.

“Roger, we’ll do what we can here. This is AL7VU, over and out.” I drop the black, plastic receiver on the desk with a loud clatter and cringe at the noise. Not that it matters. If anything, I should be making more noise. If there’s a chance it will wake our guest up, I would clang pots and pans together like a toddler playing drums in the kitchen. But I know it won’t do a damned thing for her. Being unconscious isn’t like sleeping. Only time will fix it.

And what if it doesn’t?

I swat away the nagging question buzzing around my brain. There’s no use in thinking like that, now is there? We gotta stay positive right now. It goes against my nature to think about much more than worst case scenarios. If life has taught me anything, it’s that preparing for the worst is often your best plan. Still, I can’t just sit around here acting like she’s already dead. Come hell or high water, I’m gonna try to do everything in my power to make sure that doesn’t happen.

“What’s happening?” Razor walks up behind me and I nearly jump out of my skin. I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t hear him approach.

“We’ve got a massive snow storm moving in.” I jerk my thumb toward the pile of kamikaze snowflakes that have crashed into our living room window creating a white, fluffy curtain. “They’re not flying out anyone for at least a week,” I repeat the bad news.

“A week?” His voice is tight.

Gunnar can sense our stress and he watches us back and forth, trying to figure out what’s going on and whether or not this will affect him being fed. He tilts his big, black head at us, searching our faces with his soulful eyes before making his way to my side and pushing his snout up into my hand. I instinctively pet him, as he’s trained me to when he does that. I swear dogs train their owners as much as we teach them. I run my hand over his fur and feel a bit of the stress lift off me, like a steam valve opened up in my chest and relieved some of the pressure.

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to do what we can until then.” Razor punches his fist into his palm, like a baseball coach about to unleash a master plan to his team. “We’ll have to watch her in shifts, especially through the night. It’s the only way we can be sure she’s not convulsing or vomiting,” he explains.

Damn, the guy on the radio never even mentioned convulsing. It’s a good thing she’s got an expert medic here to help. If it was just me, she’d be in a world of hurt.

“Sounds good,” I agree. “How about I make us some food and you take the first shift?”

He nods in agreement and Gunnar whines at the mention of the word “food.” My stomach rumbles loudly and I realize the dog isn’t the only one who’s starving.

“Deal,” Razor answers and heads back into his bedroom.

I don’t tell him how I’m afraid to face her. That looking at her makes me feel a cyclone of emotions I’m not used to. How the idea of watching her die is too much for me right now. Instead, I busy myself in the kitchen and try to figure out what to make for supper.