“You sit,” I said. “I’ll bring in the groceries, then I’ll help you.”
He nodded. I filled the tea kettle under the faucet at the sink and put it on a burner. Turned the burner on high and raced to bring my groceries in, setting the plastic bags just inside the door, ignoring the puddle that followed in my footsteps on my trips to and from the truck.
When I finally shut the door against the storm, the sky was a whirl of white, and I couldn’t see further than my hand. The door was good and solid, and the windows were double-paned. I’d laid down new tarpaper over the roof, and shingles as well, the previous summer. The cabin was drum-tight, but still, I could feel the wind pushing against the frame.
I put the milk and ice cream and any perishables away; the rest could wait. I turned to the young man, who was clinging to the green duffle bag and the back of the chair with his right arm, while his other lay limply in his lap.
“Is that really your name?” I asked.
“I believe so,” he said as politely as if he were wearing a suit and tie and speaking at a boardroom meeting in some fancy high-rise.
“Well, let me take your bag, and I’ll put it over here. Then I’ll get you fixed up.”
“It’s not mine,” he said. But before I could ask, he added, “I don’t know whose it is, but it’s important.”
“Okay,” I said. His answers were evasive, but first aid mattered more. I shucked my coat and placed it over the back of the other kitchen chair, which I pulled over to him and sat down. I looked him up and down. “Tell me what hurts.”
“Everything,” he said. A shudder ran through him. The tea kettle whistled. I got up and put five tea bags in the teapot, then set it aside. Going back to him, I said, “Tell me what hurts the most.”
“My ankle,” he said after a pause. “My hip. My wrist.” He looked down at his wrist, which had a tangle of damp bracelets around it. “I don’t want to cut these.”
I nodded, as though making a solemn agreement, as I took the bracelets off and set them aside. “I have tools. If I have to cut them, I can remake them for you.”
Lifting his left leg onto my lap, I ran my fingers over his ankle. He winced but held still, which meant that it was a strain, rather than a sprain, and certainly not a break. If it’d been a break, he’d have been howling.
I didn’t comment on the red paint on the toe or laces as I untied his sneaker. The sole was thin, and the whole thing seemed to melt in my hand. His sock had holes and, as I pulledoff the sock, his foot was filthy and stank. His ankle was a tad swollen.
“Put your foot in cool water, then take it out,” I said, rolling up his pant leg, dark canvas that had once been sturdy but which was now thin. “Then dunk your foot again. Do that a few times. Then I’ll wrap your ankle. We’ll put ice on it. I’ll bring the tub.”
He watched me, frowning as though perplexed, but when I came back with a white tub of cool water, I put his foot in the water.
“You see?” I asked. “We’re bringing down the swelling. Cold for now. Heat later.”
Nodding solemnly, he watched me stand up, as though he was uncertain what I might do next.
“Let me take this,” I said, tugging on the strap of the duffel.
“No,” he said, holding on tight, as though it contained something precious.
“I’m just putting it over here,” I said, tugging harder. When he let go, I put it near the easy chair, where it sagged, dusty and stained.
I helped him take off his blue wool coat and gray hoodie, its zipper cold to the touch. Underneath he had on a t-shirt and a ratty wool sweater that had left marks along his throat. Everything was filthy. And he was shaking, though the cabin was warmer than the storm outside.
“Take your foot out for a minute, then put it back in,” I said. “I’m going to build a fire and will pull the chair in front of it, so you’ll be warm while I patch up the rest of you.”
Silent and solemn, he watched me as I did all of this, then dutifully stood up so I could pull the chair next to the fire, where warmth oozed from the burning cottonwood logs I’d chopped myself.
He sat in the chair and I brought the tub over so he could soak his ankle once more. All of him smelled as though he’d not seen a hot shower in some days. Maybe even some weeks.
There would be time enough to worry about that later. The tea kettle sang, and I made two hot toddies, with a good dollop of lemon and honey and brandy in each. I handed him one of the white china mugs.
“Drink this,” I said, taking a sip from my mug. “Go slow. It’ll warm you up from the inside.”
“Thank you,” he said. He took the cup and sipped from it, holding himself stiffly as though willing his shivering to stop.
“I’ll bring you a phone,” I said. “You can call your people. Then I’ll tend to that wrist and the side of your face.”
“I don’t know who they are,” he said, addressing his comment to the mug he held in his left hand. He rested the mug on his knee and seemed to sigh.
