There was something in the lake holding him, and it had a twelve-foot reach.
It kept holding on to him under the surface of green ice and begging him for help. He couldn't breathe, and he couldn't help. Of the two, not being able to help seemed the worse. Not breathing wasn't so bad.... It hurt to breathe. It choked him. It was very unpleasant to breathe. He had much preferred not breathing to this....
Some time later, he opened his eyes.
A small, round-faced man was staring down at him through slender-framed spectacles. For a moment he thought it was the man in whose face he had smashed the car door at the diner weeks before. But this man was different—among other things his glasses were gold, not silver. Yet he was also the same. Danniels knew the signs of the Wolf Pack.
"How's your foot?" the little man asked in a surprisingly full-bodied voice.
Danniels instantly became aware of a dull sub-pain sensation in the toes of his left foot. He looked over the crest of his chest and saw the foot, naked below the cuff of his wrinkled trousers. The three smaller toes were red. No, maroon. A red so dark it was almost black. Fainter streaks of red shot away from the toes, following the tendon.
Danniels swallowed. "The foot doesn't feel so bad, but I think it is."
"We may have to operate," the small man said eagerly.
"How did I get out of the lake?"
"Joel. The man you knocked out. He came to and followed you. Naturally, he had to save your life. He banged your foot up dragging you ashore."