A bullet that close to the spine is a dangerous thing. Even moving him may have made the situation worse. To take him up in a plane and fly him to Whitehorse? We could do no more than pray we don't make things worse. We almost certainly will.
Dalton and I sit on the back porch of the clinic, after seeing Kenny and assessing the situation.
"Fuck," Dalton says. "I don't even know what to do."
"Is there any chance the council will fly in a surgeon?"
He shakes his head. "They can't even get us a doctor. Where the hell will they find a neurosurgeon?"
I take a deep breath. "April."
He looks over. "Your sister? Right, she's a neuroscientist, isn't she?"
"Yes, but she was a medical doctor first. She specialized in neurosurgery. She didn't care for it, so she got her doctorate and went into research instead. Did I mention I come from a family of overachievers?"
I give a wry smile. Dalton lays his hand on mine, and I realize I'm tugging a thread on my shirt, anxiously winding it around my finger.
"Are you sure you want to do that?" he says. "I know you and April . . ."
"I can try," I say. "For Kenny, I can try."
"Then let's go talk to the council."