On November eleventh Mara returned from a dawn check of the weir. The boot-pull in the maintenance entryway was a notched oak board bolted to the floorboards, worn smooth by decades of wet heels. She braced her right foot against the notch and pulled until the rubber wader came free with a wet, sucking gasp.
Her sock was damp at the heel, grey wool clinging to skin that had gone the waxy white of cold tallow. When she set her foot on the braided rag rug, needles of fire shot through her arch and up into the calf.
Luis Ortega walked past the entryway carrying an enamel basin of warm water and a stack of clean surgical towels. He did not ask how the culvert had been. He looked down at her bare foot, noted the capillary refill as the pale skin turned mottled pink, and nodded once.
“Salt soak in twenty minutes,” he said, his voice quiet. “Not hot water. Tepid. If you put frozen toes in hot water, the tissue splits.”
“Where is June?” Mara asked, pulling her other boot free.
“In the front office,” Luis said. “She has been sitting by the radiator since three o’clock yesterday. Salma offered her broth at four yesterday. She took two spoonfuls to be polite and left the rest to go cold on the sill.”
