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Sommer cried out.
    “Quit whining.” Broker tried for levity through chattering teeth and a voice that rattled like a snare drum. “Not the end of the world. You’re on top the water. You got air.”
    “Hurts,” Sommer said again.
    Clutching Sommer’s life jacket, hugging the bag, pumping his feet, he surged through the thrashing surf until he felt his boots scuff solid stone. Having terra firma under his feet backed off the freezing panic, and he forced a deep, shuddering breath and fixed on the problem of survival.
    Hypothermia made simple demands on humans who’d evolved in tropical savannahs. They needed fire to get warm and dry, and shelter from the wind. They had to stabilize the body’s core temperature.
    Or they would die.
    Coughing, puking lake water, he manhandled Sommer’s loose body up on the slick granite. He had to get Sommer’s brain and vital organs out of the water. Seconds were precious now.
    Sommer was injured and in shock. Broker went the other way and was on fire with adrenalin. For now, he did not feel the cold or even Sommer’s weight. The wind blazed on his sopping clothing and the snow zinged like white-hot sparks. But it wouldn’t last long. So he quickly checked Sommer for broken limbs and bleeding and found nothing. Which meant it was something internal, something far worse.
    He dragged Sommer across the granite slabs up to a loose cobble beach, dropped him, and staggered up the shale. He needed a protected nook in the granite bluff, out of the wind. And found one among a jumble of tall boulders. Better, the broken rocky base of the ridge had trapped tangled piles of almost dry driftwood.
    He tossed his duffel into a slant of boulders that formed a broad cranny ten feet deep which stopped the wind on three sides and provided some overhang against the snow. He ran back, seized Sommer’s life vest, dragged him to cover, peeled off the life vest, opened the duffel, dug out a space blanket, and quickly tucked it around Sommer. The reflective wrap would hold some warmth until . . .
    Broker shook his head, getting disoriented.
    He should gather wood, start a fire. But he had to look for the other guys. He started shaking. Which meant he was losing his fiery edge to a vast, cheerful fatigue that so loved the shelter. So he forced himself out and ran from the bluff, scanning the wind and snow. Milt wore a red parka, Allen’s was blue.
    He clambered up the rocks to gain a vantage to overlook the point. If they’d missed the end of the promontory and swamped, they’d be blown back across the open lake.
    But he saw Milt almost immediately, a red blur in the surf two hundred yards away on the edge of the point. Knee-deep in the foam, Milt was trying to land the canoe. Allen’s blue jacket moved to shore and back, carrying packs. The canoe was hard to haul because it was full of water. Broker ran toward them. They needed that canoe.
    A surge of waves pounded the two men out of sight, and when they appeared again the canoe was tipped, draining. Milt staggered, fell, stood up, and Broker realized he had wrenched the canoe on its side and shook it out through sheer force. Broker scrambled to them and saw three paddles stacked safely ashore against a pack. Good.
    “Sommer?” Allen gasped, dragging another pack.
    “Bad shape. Don’t know. He’s up the beach, a kind of cave. Need a fire,” Broker yelled.
    “Fuck!” Allen scowled. “My medical kit with some decent pain killers. Lost it on the way in.”
    “Your canoe?” Milt grimaced to Broker. His right arm hung at an odd angle.
    “Swamped. At the other end of the lake by now. What’s wrong with your arm?” Broker asked, getting them moving.
    “Can’t move it,” Milt said, wincing.
    Allen started to check the arm.
    “Not now.” Shivering uncontrollably, out of fire, Broker was naked before the maw of shock. He felt over the packs. They had lost the tents, one of the food packs, and some personal stuff, but they had the sleeping