I turn to leave Guy to his chores. But as I head inside, I remember his question.
“McKenna Barney,” I call to him. No idea why I feel the need to say my full name. Am I trying to intimidate him? Maybe he’s never heard of my mom.
He’s chopping bits of meat into his cooler. He stops to cover his heart with his hand, but he’s holding the ax and nearly loses his nose.
“Nice tactic, Barney,” he yells. “Distract me when I’m armed and dangerous. You trying to cut your competition down? I’m onto you.”
I surely hope he’s not.
Dear Ant Diane
We have to rite letters in our class to someone. Mom said I shud pick you because you love getting letters. Why woudn’t you want to facetime with me instead? Then I can show you my lose tooth. Letters are dum.
Love Jake
Chapter 8
I’ve eaten and I’m back out with the dogs when my family arrives.
“McKenna!” Mom screeches out the window of the truck.
I can’t see her across the parking lot full of dog trucks and mushers and handlers. Now everyone knows my name. Not helpful when trying to act normal and avoid anyone watching me too much, but I’m happy to hear her. They drive up and park next to us.
“Sorry, we got held up trying to find straw,” Dad says, clapping me on the back. We weren’t allowed to bring it across the border. “You made good time?”
“Yeah, we had a great run,” I say, ducking my head to untangle Lizard. He’s excited to see the dog truck. He knows there’s warm soup coming next. But he’s not that crazy about all the strange people around.
“They’re looking good, McKenna.” A vet has come to check the dogs. She’s kneeling in the straw inspecting Mustard’s feet.
Mustard doesn’t appear at all concerned that the vet is spreading his toes apart, pinching his skin over his shoulder blades, and pulling the skin down under his eyes to shine her flashlight into them. Mustard solemnly stares back at her, and my heart squeezes with as much pride as if I’d birthed him myself.
“Any worries?” she asks.
“Aspen has been pacing a bit. That little brown dog on the end. I just massaged her front shoulder. She injured it last year, but she’s been pulling steady.” I bend to hold Aspen’s head while the vet manipulates her joints.
Mom puts out a camp chair for Em. “How are you, honey?”
“I’m fine,” Emma says.
Mom helps her to the chair and then heads toward the center with a load of gear.
“Hey, squirt,” I say. “Did you have a fun day off school?”
“We went sightseeing,” she says, and then she grins, pointing to her eyes in her typical self-deprecating way. “I’m really good at it.”
Dad rummages through the bowls in the back of the truck. He has all the dogs’ attention. I’m relieved to be with my family again, but I’m also nervous.
My parents are used to living with Em. They know the signs of Stargardt’s. They’ll notice something is off with me if I let my guard down for an instant. I have to force myself not to angle my head to look at things the way Emma does. It’s exhausting and stressful, and it’s the reason I’ve avoided being around them. But here at the checkpoints, I’m forced into it. More than anything, I want to keep them from asking questions.
“Clean bill of health,” the vet says. “Keep up the good work.” She moves on to the next team.
I breathe a sigh. As long as my dogs are healthy and strong, we might get through this race.
“Where’s Sumo?” Emma asks.
I bring Sumo over to the truck and clip him to a drop chain. Emma squeaks and kneels next to him and wraps her arms around his neck. I’m worried she’s going to say something about my vision, not realizing Dad is in earshot.
“No reporters here yet,” I say to distract her. “But once I start dazzling everyone with my times, I’m sure they’ll be at the next checkpoint. I’ve been practicing what I’m going to say about carrying your letter.”
“Obviously I’ll be doing the interviews. Duh,” Emma says. “I’m the cute blind kid. You’re just the musher. And past the age of cuteness. If they interview me, I’ll get maximum coverage. Magazines, TV, YouTube. It’ll go viral.”
The floodlights in the parking lot come on above us. They cast half her face in shadow, but I can hear the teasing in her voice. She knows I’m worried about her telling, and she’s letting me know she won’t. But we’re going to have to talk later in private so I can assure her I’m okay. As long as I don’t let myself dwell too much on losing my vision, I will be okay.
I poke her belly. She reaches out to take a swipe at me. Then Mom appears around the corner.
“I’ve put your stuff inside—oh, Emma, don’t sit so close to Sumo while he’s on the drop chain. McKenna, what are you thinking? She can’t see the chain. She could get whacked in the face.”
“For God’s sake, Beth. She’s fine,” Dad says. “You can see the chain, right, Emma?”
“Sorry,” I say immediately so Emma doesn’t have to answer.
This has been Dad’s favorite kind of question since the big moment we got the results of the genetic tests and learned that Emma got Stargardt’s because she inherited recessive genes for it from both parents. Each of them took this news differently. Dad refused to accept it. And Mom has turned into a person obsessed, as though she can shelter Emma with the strength of her guilt. At least that was the end of the argument over whose fault it was.
Mom whisks Emma to a safer location.
Dad finishes what he’s doing with the gear in the back of the truck and comes over. He hands me the poop scooper. “Watch behind you there. Twix made a mess.”
“Yeah, I know. I was getting to it.” Even though I can’t see it in the glare of the floodlights, I still have a nose.
Soon, I hear Mom’s hurried boots crunching toward us again.
“I got Emma set up in a corner of the dining hall. I’ll feed her now,” she says to Dad.
“Let her do it! Don’t forget what the food-tech teacher said.”
“Just leave it alone, okay?”
I can feel the tense vibes and busy myself, pretending not to hear. Mom climbs into the back seat of the truck and pulls out Emma’s bag. I notice she leaves Em’s cane that I was careful to bring along.
Before running back inside, she pats my shoulder. “Thank God you’re whole, McKenna, and we don’t have to worry about you.”
I feel as though I’ve been doused in ice water. “You don’t have to worry about me, Mom.”
My parents start walking toward the center. I hear their angry whispers receding as they leave me to finish the chores. That suits me. Now I don’t have to stress about things like banging my head on the doors of the dog boxes.
After I’ve scooped, I tear apart the inside of our truck looking for a spare pair of sunglasses. Nothing. My anxiety levels hitch up a notch as I imagine going out on the trail again without them. I’ll have to ask my parents if they have any.
I jump out of the truck and then pause a moment to listen to everything going on around me. The shifting of the lake ice. The popcorn sound of snow pellets hitting the ground. The noise of teams still coming in, dogs arguing at the next dog truck, people laughing and calling to one another across the parking lot. I stand alone in the middle of it all, thinking about Mom’s words.
I’m whole? Does that mean that Emma isn’t whole? And what would I be with Stargardt disease?
December 13, 1896
Dear Margaret,
We have reached humanity! After six days, we arrived in the port of Sault Sainte Marie with much commotion and celebration. “The posties are here!” men were crying out to one another, their laughter ringing through the town as we made our way up Queen Street on frozen limbs.
The smell of smoke coming from the fires had me as joyful as the men running toward us like a stampede of buffalo . . .
Your loving brother, William
Chapter 9
The laughter from the campfire draws me over.
I’m not ready to sleep. Nervous energy still courses through me. I’d left my family in the computer room and wandered over to check on the dogs, but they didn’t appreciate being disturbed.
All the other mushers have their chores done too. Because this is the stage-stop part of the race, they’ve timed today’s leg and we don’t run again until tomorrow. Now the dogs have been fed, watered, massaged, all tended to and tucked in their beds. We have time to relax before the next leg of the race tomorrow.
I stumble over the brush bow of a sled parked nearby, and the people talking pause in their conversation. Has everyone turned to look at me? This was a mistake. What was I thinking, coming over here? I wave and try to act natural as I search for a seat.
A hand grabs my arm and pulls me onto a bench. “Sit before you fall down. Sheesh, you’re really tired, huh?” It’s Guy.
“Sorry, long day.” I glance around and see several more mushers our age.
The fire licks the sky, sending out sparks. I feel the blast of heat on my face and stick out my fingers. Man, that feels good.
“Did you see the moose?” a girl asks. She’s sitting close to Guy. Like, tragically close. So obvious.
“Did I?” says a large kid next to me. He has a high voice that doesn’t match the space he seems to take up. “That moose nearly plowed through my team.”
“As if, Harvey,” Guy says with a laugh. “You forget I was right behind you.”
“Well, it seemed like the moose was about to turn any minute. You never know what those swamp donkeys are going to do. Tiny brains.” Harvey taps his forehead for emphasis.
It’s nice to be around other mushers, especially ones my age. I have a lot of friends at school, and they think it’s cool that I run dogs and sometimes even win races. But they can’t understand what it’s like to be a musher. Everyone here knows. They love their dogs as much as I do. We all get it. All the hours of training, being out in blizzards, in sleet, in the dark, feeding, doing chores, worrying over injury, bursting with pride when a yearling does well. I don’t have to try and explain how the joy of running dogs seeps into you and attaches to your soul.
All around me, I can hear different conversations and I realize some of them know one another or have raced together before.
“You running Beaver in lead? I’d never guess she’d have a head for it.”
“What are you feeding for snacks? Mine seem to be going off lamb.”
“I’d put Saran around his wrist first, before the wrap. Keeps the ligaments warm.”
I listen and enjoy the feeling of being with everyone. Something unfurls inside me. I had friends. But it’s been a while since I’ve let myself be part of a group.
My attention snaps to a conversation when I hear the word Cascades.
“It’s supposed to be bad this year because of all the freezing and thawing we’ve had,” someone says. I can’t see who’s talking; she’s a few seats away from me.
“What’s the Cascades?” I ask.
“It’s the name for the section of trail over the mountain,” a male voice says. “Instead of switchbacks, it’s just one long death spiral down. The trouble is the water runoff from the cliffs. It freezes, and the buildup of ice makes the trail like a luge. So you gotta run across where the ice forms. And the trail isn’t flat, it’s sloped, like this.”
I assume he’s holding his hands up to show a disastrous angle.
Harvey takes up the story. “So if you start to slide, you’re cascading your butt all the way down.” Since he’s beside me, I can see his hands diving down and then blowing up as he demonstrates a crash, complete with sound effects.
I try to ignore the growing horror of my situation, but it’s insistent. How am I going to get through that? It’s all my worst fears come to life: I could get the dogs hurt. They could slip, sprain, or injure joints. I’d have no control. And it sounds like we could all plummet right off the mountain.
The main thing I’m concerned about is the dogs. Keeping them safe. So, really, I should just stand up right now, march over to the officials, and scratch.
But I don’t. I stare into the flames, trying to figure out what I’m going to do. I’ve got a bag of mail here that I’ve sworn to protect. But more important, if I don’t deliver Em’s letter, she’s going to tell. I’m more committed to this than anything I’ve ever done.
Tomorrow should be an easy run across Pancake Bay and then through some old logging roads. I can do tomorrow. For now, I decide to be like one of my dogs and just live in the moment.
December 14, 1896
Dear Margaret,
I must describe again our arrival for it has etched itself in my mind. Tears were streaking down the men’s faces as they read letters from their loved ones. I can now conceive why mail couriers like Mr. Miron continue this job after the struggles that we’ve faced. For the souls in these remote communities, we are their only contact with the outside world throughout the long cold winter . . .
I only wish that I had a letter from you.
Your loving brother, William
Chapter 10
Guy nudges me.
As the fire pops and sparks beside us, he pulls a book from his pocket. “The best part of this race is the fact that we’re going over the same trails that the couriers ran.” He thrusts the book at me. “Look at this! These are collections of actual letters William Desjardins wrote when he traveled through here.”
Without thinking, I bring my head closer and peer at it so I can see what he’s holding. Then my heart leaps. I jerk my head up in a panic. Rule number one: Never read in front of people! It’s not as if I can pull out Em’s magnifier right now either.
“Um. It’s late. I’d better get some sleep.” I stand to leave.
Guy grabs my hand and pulls me back down to the bench. The touch of his skin on mine shocks me into silence. I notice how warm his hand is and then it’s gone.
“I haven’t told you the best part. William Desjardins—he’s actually my relative. My great-great-grandfather!” Guy’s so enthusiastic, he doesn’t seem to notice that he held my hand. “He needed to get to White River, and the fastest way at the time was with the dog couriers running this mail route.”
He begins to read out loud from his book of letters. Without him looking at me, I have time to gather my thoughts. I can watch him from the corner of my eye and listen to the sound of his voice. It has a nice tone. There’s a good energy buzzing off him. He captures my full attention. The girl next to Guy gives up and wanders away.
When Guy finally pauses and looks up from his book, I’m torn from the spell he’s cast. “Where did you find that? How do you know you’re related?” I ask.
“I’ve been hearing about him my whole life. My grandpa Desjardins told me stories when I was young about his granddad’s time with the couriers. And a while ago, he had this book made. It’s the whole reason I wanted to run the race. In school, I even heard about Raymond Miron, the courier from Sault Ste. Marie who ran the mail with his dogs from Killarney to these very trails. And he got the same greeting every time he delivered the mail. His arrival at a community was an event. It almost makes you wish that texting wasn’t invented. It would be so cool to bring the mail to people when it was really important. You know?”
I nearly tell him that some of us are carrying really important mail. It finally dawns on me. “That’s why you’re dressed as . . . what, a mail courier, right? ’Cause you’re carrying the mail?”
Guy straightens the button things on his shoulders. “I know women can’t resist a man in uniform, but I’ve got other priorities, ma’am. I have to get the mail through. At all costs, the mail must get through.”
“You might be the weirdest person I’ve ever met.”
“Come, now,” he says. “I shall endeavor to be not weird.”
I smile and shake my head. “So you’re from here? You ever run the UP? The Upper Peninsula race in
Michigan?”
“I did the Beargrease mid-distance last year.”
“Cool! I ran the rec class when I was twelve. My mom ran behind me with her team.”
“She running this one too?”
I hesitate. “No. Mom used to race. She did it for years before meeting my dad. You might recognize her name. Beth Barney?”
Guy shrugs.
“She was Beth Lee a long time ago when she won races. Now she just stays home. She’s made looking after my sister a full-time job.”
“Why?”
I should not have brought this up. Best to stay away from the topic entirely. I should have led with my dad’s business—pumping septic systems and renting out porta-potties. That always ends the conversation. But something about Guy keeps me talking. “Well, my mom’s really protective of her.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Em’s got some eyesight challenges. She could use vision-enhancing equipment, but my parents would rather fight about what she needs.”
“Really? Is it progressive retinal atrophy?” Guy leans forward. “That’s what Zesty has.”
“No. She’s got Stargardt disease. It’s also called juvenile macular degeneration. It causes damage to the macula and nothing can be done about it.”
“Oh, that sucks,” Guy says. “There’s no cure for Zesty either. But she doesn’t seem to mind.” Guy looks thoughtful for a moment. “Vision-enhancing equipment like what?”
“The school bought her this thing called CCTV. It’s a TV screen at her desk that she uses to zoom in on the whiteboard so she can see it from where she’s sitting. It enlarges words up to sixty times.” I immediately think of my own troubles seeing the board. And I refuse to move closer to the front, since moving would look too suspicious.
“Why can’t she just wear glasses?”
“If there’s something wrong with your cornea—that’s the camera lens in the front part of your eye—it can be fixed with glasses or surgery. Stargardt’s affects the retina, which is at the back of your eye. Corrective glasses don’t help. But she can be like any normal person if she uses her aids. And other equipment like voice technology, monoculars, large-print books, magnifiers, her cane.” The more I talk about this, the more agitated I feel. “Hey, it’s getting late. I’m going to get some sleep. Big day tomorrow beating you.”
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