2.

Alive and Coughing

B olt lived in a small igloo, which he’d built with help from many penguins in the colony. Penguin wings can’t scoop snow well, but are excellent for patting down lumps and smoothing gaps.

The igloo had just one big round room and, since it was carved from snow and ice, lacked basic amenities such as heat or plumbing. Now that he had a visitor, Bolt wished he had done more decorating. A small ice table held a pink vase with some green wisps of seaweed that tried to pass themselves off as flowers. On the ground, in the corner, was a sleek stainless-steel toaster that might have made wonderful toast if there had been an electrical outlet. And if Bolt had bread.

The waves from the sea brought gifts like those on occasion. The clothes Bolt wore, for example, had been in a washed-ashore suitcase. The toaster and vase had floated to their beach in a small wooden crate.

Annika lay on Bolt’s snow bed. She wore black-and-white tattered lederhosen, the traditional penguin-like garb of the Brugarian Forest Bandits. Bolt had piled his two blankets atop her.

A small groan floated from her bluish lips. Bolt tucked the edges of the blankets around Annika to keep her warmer. Soon, her blue lips looked less bluish. Some pink returned to her pale face.

Seeing Annika reminded Bolt how much he missed being around people, and especially Annika, who might have been his only human friend in the world. He brushed his hands through a curl of hair that had fallen out from one of her bobby pins.

“Bolt?” Annika’s voice, although soft and quiet, surprised him. “I’m so glad we found you . . .” Annika coughed, deep harsh coughs. Bolt gripped her hand and she squeezed back.

“Why are you here?” Bolt asked. “How did you know where I was?”

Annika coughed again, then flashed the hint of a smile.

Bolt was happy to see that smile, and returned it. He had not been happy in a long while, he realized. He had not been unhappy, either. He had just felt . . . mostly nothing. He had just lived. But just living isn’t doing much living at all.

“My papa and I . . .” Annika began, and then coughed again. Some spittle landed on Bolt’s cheek. She looked away and bit her lips, as if organizing a jumbled heap of memories into one. She nodded, seeming to make up her mind on what to say, then shared her story.