The ordinary sound of a snow machine sputtering to a stop does not interrupt my typing. A report about trade with South America through the Panama Canal is due tomorrow. My fingers flying from the keyboard when the door bangs open and Mom shrieks louder than a hollowing wolf. I dash down the stairs.

A bedraggled man enters. It is Uncle Earl. He is wrapped in a blanket riddled with holes. His frosty pants are skin-tight long johns, and his feet are in nothing more than snow-covered socks.

Mom squeals more over her brother and grabs a hold on his arm. Dad and I holler in unison, "What's happened?"

Uncle Earl's quivering voice says, "I dumped in the river then James Samuelson pulled me out."

Mom insists he get into a hot bath immediately and hurries off to Dad's closet for a change of clothes. Dad pulls off socks that cover bright red feet. I run ahead to start filling the tub with hot water and plug in an electric heater.

While my uncle is soaking in the tub, I don't think about finishing the assignment for Ms. Bloom's class. My thoughts are on James. Could it be that he did something mean causing Uncle Earl's snow machine to crash? Why else would he mention James?

Uncle Earl emerges in fur-lined slippers and bundled in a thick blanket over sweat pants. His wet, gray-streaked hair gleams under the light suspended over the kitchen table. He wearily plunks down in the chair closest to the furnace
I scoot my chair in close. "Tell us what James did, Uncle Earl."

He shocks me with a glowing report of rescue by James. It should have overwhelmed me with admiration instead of a pinch of displeasure.

"James is a true hero," my dad declares with a thoughtful pull on his beard. My cheeks flush.

"I agree, Donald. That boy showed me bravery and a good heart."

"Drink more cocoa, dear brother. You're starting to look stronger." Mom's usual, no-nonsense voice gushes with affection as she refills a tall mug. She spreads pilot bread with wild raspberry jam and hands Uncle Earl his most favorite snack.

"Ah, Bea, you are a mighty good sister." He grins and wraps stiff, calloused hands around the warm mug and inhales chocolate coated steam. It's as if frigid cold is still in his bones. I jump up and place my hands on his shoulders and rub hard to bring back some warmth.

My dad's gray eyes sparkle with a new thought. "We'll have a potlatch to celebrate. Everyone in the village will come."

Disbelief washes over me. "A potlatch for James?"

"Great idea," my uncle says and raises his cup in salute.

"Why should there be a big dinner to honor James as if he's a hero?" I hop up and give Mom a pleading look.

Mom turns from the stove and pulls a wooden spoon out of boiling fish stew. She flashes me a frown. "Now, Brooke Anne, I know he is not a favorite with you. Be kind, it won't hurt you to eat one dinner honoring him for saving your uncle." She turns to Dad. "Let's do it Saturday night."

"That sounds good, Bea. The school multi-purpose room is free." Dad, as a teacher and the school principal, can use the school anyway he wants. He reaches for the house phone. "I'll start calling and get the word out."

I dare not utter one word. My thoughts of James are not even close to hero. What I consider him is annoying, mean, or purely an enemy.

I leave the jolly scene of party-planners, throw on my parka and stomp out into the night. The night air is refreshingly free of onions and fish being boiled for supper. Heavy clouds are locking in warmer temperature and snow has stopped falling. Twilight reflecting on white ground cover reveals the path near the dog yard.

Shemya can't hear me stomp through snow but still he bounds out of his new doghouse. I kneel beside him and stroke his deaf ears. He nuzzles his head against my chest. "If anyone can be called a hero around here, it's you, Shemya."

His big tongue rewards my unheard praise by putting a dog kiss on my cheek. I cuddle him under the darkening sky.

Stillness breaks with the crunch of feet nearby. A barking chorus comes from dogs tied to their houses.

"That you, Brooke?" It's a familiar voice that I don't totally welcome hearing.

"Hello, Walter." I turn to the dogs. "Hush, hush. Be quiet," I order a few times until they settle down.

Since Walter Evans is James' best friend and dog handler at races, I tend to think of him as a spy. "What brings you around?"

"I been wondering how you're doing after that bear attack."

"Aside from nightmares, I'm okay." I stand up to be level with smiling eyes that peek from under a beaked cap. He always wears the cap straight on instead of backward like most other boys at school.

"I'll bet you do see that grizzly in your dreams. What a rough and scary thing."

"Yes, it was. But I'm fine now."

"Is this a new doghouse for Shemya?" Walter brushes snow dust off the pitched roof.

"Dad and Andy Chinkov fixed it up today." A few words with Walter begins to feel welcome.

"Andy? Why everyone knows his Skidoo rammed it and hurt Shemya. Your father is a smart guy to make him do the repairs."

"Andy insists he feels bad about hitting Shemya." A big furry body nudges my leg as if he knows I'm talking about him. My hands plunge into his fur for brisk strokes to his back.

Walter leans against the new doghouse. "How's your uncle doing? Did he get any frostbite?"

"No purple fingers or toes, but his feet were as red as a skinned salmon." Walter is easily amused. Perfect white teeth fill his whole face with a sunny smile.

"That man is indestructible. James said he had a devil of a time dragging Earl out of the frozen Yukon River. He was just splashing around and....."

"I've heard the whole story, Walter." I stopped him from prolonging praise for James.

"Yeah, I guess everyone will hear all about it at school tomorrow. James will be treated like some kind of hero."

"A hero? Why? Wouldn't anyone who happened to be there have done the same thing?"

"Yeah, anyone strong enough, fast enough, and smart enough. Your uncle was lucky it was James who came along."

"You're always rooting for James, aren't you, Walter?"

"Except when I'm rooting for you, Brooke."

"Just when is that?"

Walter's grin flashes again. "You sink great shots for the girls' basketball team."

"Thanks, Walter. I have heard you yell."

He drops to his knees to scratch behind Shemya's ears. "Is it true you're going to run Shemya in the Junior Champs?"

"Yes, I am."

"How can that work? This is a deaf dog."

"I tested him alongside Tok today. He is good at setting the pace and keeping the lines taut. Tok is good at following my commands and moves left and right quickly. I think they can work together." I stop the brag short. After all, despite his sweet talk, Walter works with James.

A light flashes from the front door. Mom calls that dinner is ready.

"I'll see you around, Brooke," Walter says. He pats Shemya's head again, pulls his parka hood snuggly over his cap, and trots away in gym shoes.