11
“Jesus,” Emmett moaned, “I need something for the pain.”
“Oh yeah?” I asked, watching Mike pull both canoes toward shore, Sharkey clutching the gunwales of the properly floating one. “How about a rock upside your head? ‘Cause that’s all I’ve got.”
He stopped talking, but kept writhing. At least that prevented him from freaking out when the yellow-vested dog appeared as Mike helped Sharkey onto dry land. Mike supported his friend on one side, and the big animal walked on the other, pressed against the outfitter as though to break his fall. Once Sharkey was settled, Mike approached me and Emmett, carrying the nylon strap that had earlier secured his own feet in the canoe. He looped it around Emmett’s hands in a pattern that escaped me, then cinched it quickly, eliciting a yelp from Emm
