Ice Dogs by Terry Lynn Johnson Read Free Book Online

put the dog jackets—fleece liners with windstopper nylon shells—on Bean and Dorset. They don’t have the thick natural coats the rest of the dogs have. A dog like Drift would just eat the jacket anyway if I left her with it overnight.
    As soon as I’m done, the dogs curl up and look like giant versions of the coconut rum balls Mom used to make at Christmas. They seem content with the firelight catching their eyes and making them shine. In truth, I need them a lot more than they need me. The shame of this heats my face.
    Chris is leaning toward the fire again and I smell the singed bag. “It’s too cold out here.”
    I sort of admire how he’s not afraid to show what a complete tadpole he is.
    The wind is screaming through the clearing, pelting snow and cold into me, looking for chinks in my armor. I raise my shoulders to try and protect the heat escaping out my exposed neck. Black, cold, winter night. Deadly night.
    â€œShouldn’t we build an igloo or something?” Chris brushes off the snow that continually coats the sleeping bag.
    Once I trudge to the sled, I hold Mr. Minky in my left hand, feel its familiar, comforting shape under my gloved fingers, and clear my throat. “We’re going to hole up in the sled until morning.” I look at the bag when I speak, but sense his stare. His fear seems to have vanished suddenly.
    â€œAh-ha, I knew you were trying—”
    â€œWe’ll be warmer in there out of the snow and wind. It’s like a small tent.” I open the sled bag and look inside.
So small.
    More doubts and unhelpful movie titles like
Swamp Thing,
and
Sleeping with the Enemy
swarm in my head. I notice I’m holding my arms across myself, and drop them, standing up straighter.
    I seriously need to get out more. I swear I’ll start going to those lame house parties that Sarah keeps insisting I go to. “For your rep,” she says. “You’re in danger of becoming one of those crazy old dog ladies who never partied when she was young and wrinkle-free, and then lives to regret it for the rest of her life.”
    I love her like she’s a sister, but only Sarah could worry about getting wrinkles.
    Chris stands, wobbles a little, then leans over the sled to look in. He holds the sleeping bag up to his chest as if he’s ready to enter a potato-sack race. Our eyes meet across the sled bag. He smiles.
    â€œAfter you,” he says.
    â€œWe have to lay our outer clothes down on the bottom; they’ll dry with our body heat.”
    Chris opens his mouth to say something, but then just grins wider.
    I ignore him and slide the sled onto the spruce boughs. My throat catches when I try to swallow. I take off my anorak.
    â€œYou should, um, get in first. You’re bigger.” My hands tremble and I’m glad it’s too dark for him to notice.
    â€œIt’s about the size of a coffin in here, isn’t it?” Chris climbs in and lies down with his knees bent awkwardly. His shoulders take up the width of the sled.
    â€œPut your jacket under the sleeping bag,” I say loudly over the wind, as I shuck off my snow pants. My stomach flips.
    â€œMove over.” I try to sound nonchalant, as if I do this all the time, sleep in my sled with some dude I’ve just met. I take off my wool pants, and throw them into the bottom of the sled.
    Chris unzips the sleeping bag and holds it open for me. His teeth flash white in the dark like a Cheshire cat. Shivering in my skivvies, I climb in.
    â€œOw! That’s my hip!”
    â€œWell, move your hip.”
    â€œAugh, your elbow is digging into my ribs . . . ”
    â€œDon’t . . . would you stop that . . . ouch . . . your knee . . . ”
    We squirm around until we find that the best place for me is under his arm, spooning with my back to him. I zip the sleeping bag to block out the cold, and reach up to