The Icarus Project by Laura Quimby

chain-link fence standing guard in front of me.
    West’s face appeared in the door to the dog hut, and he yelled, “Don’t touch the fence with bare skin! No fingers, noses, cheeks … and no tongues!” He pointed a gloved finger at Kyle, who burst out laughing, and I wondered where he had put his tongue before.
    West continued. “No pressing up against it. The metal will stick to your skin—rip it clean off.”
    I eyed the fence from a safe distance. The cold was still there, lingering, acclimating to me.
    Finally, the door shot open and the dogs spilled out of the warm hut. A pack of lean and lanky huskies barked and yapped, their pink tongues lolling out of their open mouths. Smoky breath plumed from their snouts. They bounced and jostled for our attention, banging up against the fence until West hurried over to let us in. Kyle and I went inside the enclosure and were immediately mobbed. Tails whipped back and forth. Dog bodies wove their way between the two of us as we petted and rubbed their furry backs.
    Kyle dragged one dog around by a knotted rope that the dog clenched tightly in his jaws. The wild crystal-blue eyes of another dog stared at me. I knelt down and was overrun with dog love, licks, and kisses. West let Kyle and me jump around with the dogs for a while before motioning for us all to come back to the warmth of the hut. Once inside, I pulled off my gloves and sunk my fingers into their furry coats.
    Then I saw the runt off in the corner by herself, pushed to the back of the pack. I was drawn to her right away. Her fur was all white except for a splatter of brown spots and speckles that made her look like she had been splashed with mud. I moved slowly in her direction. I held out myhand for her to smell, and she eased toward me, low to the ground, tail wagging wildly. Once she smelled me, she licked my fingers and let me run my hands through her thick, soft fur.
    “She likes you,” West said.
    “Will she be one of the dogs pulling the sled today?” I asked hopefully.
    “No, she doesn’t do much pulling. Too small.” He patted the haunch of a much bigger dog.
    “Oh,” I said, disappointed. “What’s her name?”
    “She doesn’t have one.”
    The dog’s amber-colored eyes stared up at me. What had looked like the brown splashes of a mud puddle reminded me of the cinnamon sugar that Mom used to sprinkle on toast to make it taste sweet and crunchy when it came out of the toaster oven. “How about Cinnamon? That’s a good name.” Naming something gave it strength, made it more whole. Cinnamon was a fiery color.
    “For a sled dog?” Kyle knelt on the floor, his arms around two other dogs. “She needs a tough name. Like Ginger Snap! That’s a tough-dog name.”
    “That’s good, too. But I still like Cinnamon. Gives her a spark. What do you think, West?”
    Cinnamon rolled over on her back, exposing her white belly.
    “Not bad.” West grinned at me, knowing what I was up to. “Since you’re taking the initiative on giving her aname, why don’t you get the brush out and give her a good brushing? That coat of hers is one big mat.”
    “Cinnamon!” I called to her as I dug a comb and brush out of the supply cabinet. She jumped to her feet and raced over to me. I rubbed her neck, getting a face full of dog licks. “I think she likes her new name.” I dragged the brush through her tangled fur, and she yapped and squirmed.
    “Don’t get too attached. She’s probably not going to stay with us, seeing as she’s not as strong as the others,” West said. He was holding a string of harnesses on his arm that must have weighed a ton. Strength seemed to be an important quality for West.
    “Sure, she might be small, but she’s smart,” I said. A wad of shedded dog hair flew in the air as I brushed out her matted fur.
    “She might be. But on a dog team, you need strength. No weak links. That little girl has a lot to prove if she wants to stick around.” West flexed his arm and carried