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if I might wring him dry and make him better all at once. “Thank you!”
    But my thanks were taken too soon. Bart’s eyes closed and he slumped forward against me, a trail of spittle and vomit at the corner of his mouth.
    I wiped it away with a corner of my shirt and put my head to his chest again. His breathing was rough and uneven and as wheezy as an old man’s. But he was breathing, and as long as one breath followed another, there was hope he might survive.
    â€œI have to move you,” I said firmly, like it was nothing to talk to a half-dead boy whose lips were the color of blueberries. Getting behind him, I hooked my arms under his and wrapped my arms around him. I struggled backward under his weight, able to shift him only a little at a time. I swore when my ankletwisted under me but forced myself upright and kept pulling. Finally we were as far away from the water as we could get, between a fallen log and the sharp bank rearing above us. Trees grew right to the edge of the bank, and protruding roots afforded us the barest protection from the endless rain.
    Ignoring my own shivering, I tore off my coat and covered him. There was no sign of his pack anywhere. Bart let out a long sigh or moan—it was hard to say which. But again I took this as a good sign. “Bart, I’ve got to go up to the bridge for help. And my pack. So I can make a fire.”
    His eyelids flickered as I spoke and he moaned again. Then his arm moved.
    â€œWhat are you doing? Lie still.” But Bart would not be still. With a great effort he moved his arm again and pointed to his side.
    â€œTake it.” His voice was scarcely more than a whisper.
    â€œTake what?”
    â€œThe poke.”
    His pouch of money was still fastened to his belt. “Take it. I ain’t got no use for it now.”
    â€œBart—don’t talk crazy. I won’t be long. Then I’ll get a fire started and dry you out.”
    â€œJust take it.”
    A small voice inside started asking questions. What if he died before I got back with Mr. Emerson and the pack? What if he was hurt inside? I’d seen animals like that—they seemed to rally right before the end and then died anyway. What if these were his last words and I was too pigheaded to listen to them?
    â€œBart—I won’t take your money. But if—and it won’t—but if something happens to you, do you want me to take the money to Emily Rose?”
    Bart’s breathing grew short and rough. “Emily Rose.”
    â€œWhat’s her father’s name? Where will I find her?”
    â€œIn my dreams,” Bart said. “Only in my dreams.”
    A chill went right through me. It was as if he were talking about a ghost.
    â€œYou’re talking nonsense. Tell me where she lives.”
    Bart opened his eyes and stared right into my very soul. “There ain’t no such person, Joe.”
    â€œWhat are you saying?”
    â€œI made her up. Seemed you and everyone else had a dream to chase. I wanted one too.” With that, Bart closed his eyes and slumped back, his breath rattling in his chest.
    â€œBart?”
    Nothing. I pulled my coat back over him. Would he wake up again?
    I was near torn in half. I wanted to stay crouched beside him as if just by watching the rise and fall of his chest I could make sure that he kept breathing.
    But every minute I sat there in the rain was another minute wasted that I could be building a fire and finding something for him to eat.
    My chattering teeth finally got me moving. I was soaked, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before there might be two corpses lying there beside the river.

Chapter 14
    It took near enough two hours to work my way back upstream to the bridge. As I drew closer I called and called, but there was no reply. When I reached my pack, I could have screamed aloud. Mr. Emerson and Nigel had left only some tea and a few beans along with my panning gear and a blanket.