Prologue

I lay sprawled in leaves and scraggly shrubs. With each quick breath I took, my bike rose and fell on my chest, its front wheel spinning. Birds chirped, a breeze rustled branches, I tasted iron, my heartbeat thundered in my ears. Darkness zoomed in like the closing credits of an old movie, edges first, then center. A high-pitched squeal drowned out all sound until all that was left was the ringing and the black.

Woozy, tingling, I floated, waiting for sight and sound to return. Thank God I’d landed flat on my back. That saved me from fully blacking out.

I wiggled my toes. What a relief. They still worked.

All systems seemed a go. No pain. A miracle. Fan-friggin-tastic! I sat up and pressed my right palm into the dirt, ready to push myself up. That’s when I felt it—something was out of whack.

My right hand was in a black full-fingered glove. But the pinky finger jutted sideways in an S curve, like a snapped twig. That is quite unfortunate. I wasn’t all that concerned about the finger. My biggest worry was whether this would spoil the rest of my Newfoundland adventure. Using my forearm, I pushed myself to my knees and stood. Leaves and dirt fell from my clothes. Bright-red blood dripped onto my yellow shirt from a gash on my jawline.

No cell service anywhere. I walked my bike toward the trailhead. Thirty minutes later, I met two hikers.

“Hi, do either of you have medical training?”

“Yes, I’m career military,” the man said. We stood at the edge of a wooden footbridge. Water babbled over rocks below. Cottony clouds blanketed the sky. A crisp breeze fluttered his unzipped jacket collar. I held up my gloved right hand.

“Eww!” His face contorted as if he’d bitten into something sour. “Is it broken or dislocated?”

His wife inched closer, then gasped and looked away.

“I don’t know. Can’t fix it myself, so didn’t see a reason to take the glove off.”

The man watched and grimaced as I inched it off. His wife turned her back and gazed down at the river.

“Oh gee, sorry, I can’t help with that.”

His wife rejoined us. We stood in a circle, staring down at my hand as if it were a wounded bird. “I doubt the clinic can handle that,” he said. “The closest hospital is a few hours away. Where is your partner? Or your friends?”

“I’m traveling alone.”

His eyebrows rose and then sunk. “You don’t have anyone to help?” He rubbed his forehead, his expression a mixture of concern and disbelief.

An hour after the crash, I made it to my truck and tried the door handle with my three good fingers. That confirmed my right hand was useless. Even the slightest movement of the deformed pinky finger shot pain up my arm. Still no cell service for many miles. I had no health insurance in Canada.

As I off-loaded gear onto the passenger seat with my left hand, my emotional center was blank and toneless. The military man’s words replayed in my mind: You don’t have anyone to help? The look on his face had said it all: Who would come all the way out here alone?