said, through shudders of cold, “I wore the … tight ones. Act of … rebellion.”
“Yeh,” I said through gritted teeth. “I noticed.” She lay back on the seat, and between the two of us, we worked the wet denim down her legs. It was a major effort. Warmed us up, maybe, because she was still shaking, but she was also laughing.
“Oh, bugger,” she said. “Trousers are the … Devil’s work. I’m the … Whore of Babylon … after all. Already burned in the … fire. Oh, bloody hell, that was cold.”
The two blokes may have been staring at each other. It was hysteria, maybe, except that this girl seemed like about the least hysterical person I’d ever met. Possibly including the rugby players. I got the jeans off at last, put the blanket over her, and said, “Take off your undies.”
“Does that … work?” she asked, working away under the blanket with as little fuss as she’d shown about the rest of it. “With the … girls?”
It took me a second. Then I laughed. “Well, I’m usually a little smoother in how I say it.”
“You’re cold … too,” she said. “Hypo … hypothermia.”
“Yeh. No worries.” I took the other blanket—it did smell like dog—and was about to wrap it around my waist before getting my jeans off when I remembered, turned, and looked. There was the dog, lying down five or six meters behind us, panting, looking like it couldn’t crawl any farther. The girl hadn’t even asked about it, had totally ignored it, in fact. That was odd, but people did odd things under stress.
I jogged over there, feeling the stones under my stockinged feet for the first time, crouched down beside the animal, and began to rub it down with the blanket.
It was a Labrador. Dark, and thin. More than thin—skinny, the ribs right there to feel. Exhausted, too, its muzzle on its paws, its eyes closed. And shaking with cold.
“Hey, fella,” I said softly, rubbing a little harder, trying to warm it up. “How ya goin? All right there? Brave, weren’t you, swimming like that, pulling her?”
“Where did it come from?” The voice came from behind me. The girl.
“What?” I turned my head. “You should be in the ute. Keys are in the ignition. Start it. Warm it up.”
“In a … minute.” She got down beside me, looking smaller than ever in an oversized jacket and a blanket as a skirt, and put her hand on the dog’s broad head. “I thought I was … hung up somehow. In the river. It was the dog, grabbing my shirt. I couldn’t think … where it came from. But I think … There was a shape. Why I swerved.”
She was still so cold. Why was she out here? I said, “I thought it was yours. It’s skinny. No collar. Stray, I reckon. Go get warm.” I’d all but pushed her into the river. The thought of what could have happened—what should have happened—was trying to make me shake. I needed to get her safe. I needed to get both of us warm.
“No,” she said. “Not if it’s been … dumped. People can be so … horrible. I’m taking it.” She was paying no attention to my perfectly logical suggestion. I was the rescuer, or I’d tried to be, and you were meant to listen to your rescuer, right? If I was cold, she had to be so much colder.
“Fair enough,” I said. “If you’re sure.”
“Come on,” she said, standing up. “Bring it. I’m freezing. I can’t … think. I need to get warm and think. Make a plan. And something’s wrong with you. You’re moving … oddly. Something hurts.”
I’d just said that she needed to warm up. Twice. And she hadn’t even mentioned her car. That car was buggered, if they could even find it. Down the river by now, maybe. I’d swear she’d already written it off in her mind and moved on.
It had been tragedy and death, and then it hadn’t. The adrenaline rush had me jittery and a bit sick, or maybe that was the migraine, which was pounding out of my eye like somebody was hammering there. She had to be feeling that sick rush too. Why wasn’t she showing it?
Were all half-drowned, three-quarters-frozen teenage girls this cool and decisive?
And how had she got out of that car?
3
The Next Thing
Daisy
Next thing, I told myself. Do the next thing. I got my arms into the sleeves of the jacket and shivered my way back to the