Chapter Five
ARIS
The ice beneath Nash's boots groans as he steps onto the frozen surface of what he calls Timber Creek.
The sound makes my chest tighten, a deep, ominous crack that speaks of hidden dangers beneath the white expanse.
I remain on solid ground, watching him put one boot down, transfer his weight, then the next, the way a man does when he knows how treacherous ice can be.
He crosses the treacherous ice like it's a sidewalk, and something in my chest files that away without my permission.
"Ice fishing?" I ask, unable to keep the skepticism from my voice.
"Protein," he says, kneeling beside a dark patch where the ice appears thinner. "You've been running on fumes for three days. Your body's starting to eat itself."
The blunt assessment stings because it's true.
The trail mix and occasional vegetables from Nash's emergency supplies haven't been enough to sustain the grueling pace of tracking through deep snow and bitter cold.
My hands shake constantly now, not from the temperature, but from hunger that gnaws at my ribs like a living thing.
Yesterday, I stumbled twice on terrain that should have been manageable.
This morning, I needed Nash's help to load my pack because my muscles couldn't generate the strength.
The weakness terrifies me more than the cold, more than the wolves May mentioned, because it represents the complete breakdown of my ability to function.
Nash produces a small ice auger from his pack and begins drilling through the frozen surface with the confidence of a man who could do it blindfolded.
Ice chips fly as he works, creating a neat hole that reveals dark water beneath.
Watching him work is mesmerizing, the rhythm of it, the way his shoulders move beneath his jacket.
I force myself to look away. This is not the time to be admiring my guide's physique.
"How do you know it's safe?" I ask.
"I don't. But I know how to read ice, and this section's been frozen for weeks." He glances up at me. "Risk versus reward. You need calories, and fish provide clean protein your body can actually use."
"Fish aren't mammals," I say, the words coming out more defensive than I intended.
"No, they're not." Nash doesn't look up from preparing his fishing line, but there's a dryness in his voice that wasn't there this morning. "Does that make them acceptable to Dr. Thorne's dietary requirements?"
Heat crawls up my neck. "I'm still working out the moral boundaries."
"At least you're honest about it." He drops the line through the hole and settles back on his heels. "Most people pretend their food choices make perfect sense instead of admitting they're making it up as they go."
The comment lands. He's just stating facts with enough humor to soften them, not shaming me, not scoring points.
We sit in comfortable silence while Nash tends the line, his attention split between the fishing and scanning the surrounding forest. I find myself studying his profile when he's not looking, the strong line of his jaw, the way his eyes constantly assess our surroundings, the competent way his hands manage the fishing equipment.
This is a problem. I'm supposed to be focused on finding Waldo, not memorizing the attractive features of my wilderness guide.
"Tell me about him," Nash says eventually. "Dr. Brine."
The invitation catches me off guard. For months, I've carried Thaddeus's memory like a private burden, protecting it from people who might not understand the depth of our connection or what I promised him.
"He was brilliant," I say, testing the words. "A scientist who could see patterns others missed, connections that weren't obvious until he pointed them out."
"Sounds like a good mentor."
"I told you he was everything I wanted to become. What I didn't tell you is that he was also the loneliest man I ever met." I pull my knees to my chest, trying to conserve warmth. "His whole philosophy came down to one rule: the data tells the truth if you ask it the right question."
Nash nods, his eyes still moving between me and the fishing line. His silence does the work of an invitation. I want to keep talking, to share pieces of Thaddeus I've kept protected.
"He would have been fascinated by your tracking methods," I admit. "He always said you couldn't understand animal behavior from a laboratory, that you had to observe them in their natural environment to see the truth."
"Smart man." Nash's line goes taut, and he begins reeling in with smooth movements. "Would he have approved of working with a hunter?"
The question cuts deeper than Nash probably intended.
The truth is that Thaddeus kept hunting at arm's length.
He called himself an observer, said science needed the distance, and for years I read that as disapproval because it was easier than owning the flinch as mine.
He respected the balance on paper. He just never liked looking at the part of the equation where something has to die.
"No," I say quietly. "He would have found another way."
"But there wasn't another way, was there?"
"No." The admission tastes bitter. "The university only approved the funding with Hollister Wilderness Logistics. No alternatives, no negotiations."
A silver fish emerges from the dark water, thrashing against the hook with desperate energy. Nash handles it without ceremony, ending its struggle with a sharp blow that makes me flinch, then look away, then look back despite myself. He's almost reverent with it, careful, respectful, even in death.
"Rainbow trout," he says, holding it up. "Clean water, wild-caught, lived free until thirty seconds ago."
I stare at the fish, its scales catching the pale winter light. It's beautiful even in death—sleek, powerful, perfectly adapted to its environment. The sight makes my stomach clench with hunger and my conscience squirm with uncertainty.
"I can clean it, cook it over the camp stove," Nash continues, watching my face. "Or I can leave it for the ravens and watch you collapse from malnutrition in the next two days."
The choice he's offering isn't really a choice at all.
I've pushed my body to its limits, ignored every signal that I need more substantial fuel than dried fruit and nuts.
The weakness in my limbs, the constant tremor in my hands, the way my thinking has become sluggish and unfocused, all symptoms of a body consuming itself to survive.
"How do you prepare it?" I ask.
"Simply. Salt, pepper, cooked until it flakes. No ceremony, no guilt." Nash begins cleaning the fish with movements that suggest he's done this thousands of times. "Just gratitude for what we've been given."
This isn't the casual destruction I've always assumed came with taking an animal to eat. It's careful stewardship, taking only what's needed and using everything that's taken.
"Dr. Brine never taught you practical field skills?" Nash asks as he portions the fish for cooking.
"He focused on the science. Said other people could handle the logistics." I laugh, but it comes out hollow. "I guess he assumed I'd always have support staff to manage the survival aspects."
"Academic expeditions usually do. Cooks, guides, equipment specialists." Nash lights the camp stove, and I'm struck by how his hands work the pan like a man who's cooked here before. "You don't typically send researchers into the field alone."
"The funding only covered one person. Me." I watch steam rise as Nash heats oil in a small pan. "The university made it clear this was my chance to prove the research had value."
Nash pauses in his preparations, looking at me with an expression that makes my breath stick halfway in. "That's a lot of pressure to put on someone."
"There's another reason I had to be here," I say, watching the steam rise.
"Not just the funding. Thaddeus's collar on Waldo stopped transmitting almost exactly a year ago.
The day before he died. Everything since then is stored on the collar itself.
A year of data I can only recover by pulling it off him.
And the release mechanism only fires within fifty yards of a live transmitter.
It runs on its own isolated cell—a safety standard, so the collar can always be recovered even after the main battery is gone.
" I look up at Nash. "That's why a helicopter can't do this.
That's why a satellite ping can't do this.
I have to walk to him. It's what Thaddeus would have wanted.
He believed the work mattered more than personal comfort.
" The words feel automatic, a justification I've repeated so often it's become reflex.
"What do you believe?"
The question stops me cold. For three years, I've operated on Thaddeus's convictions, pursued his vision, measured myself against his standards. The idea that I might have my own beliefs, separate from his, feels foreign and slightly terrifying.
"I believe Waldo represents something important," I say. "A potential adaptation that could help his entire species survive climate change."
"That's the research talking." Nash's voice is gentle, but his eyes are direct. "What about you? What do you believe about being out here, about taking risks to chase an animal that might not even exist anymore?"
The fish sizzles as it hits the hot oil, filling the air with a scent that makes my mouth water despite my moral uncertainty. Nash tends it with the same attention he gives everything else—focused, competent, present in the moment rather than lost in abstract theories.
Competence looks good on him. I don't write that down.
"I believe I made a promise," I say finally. "And I believe keeping promises matters more than being comfortable."
"Even when the promise might kill you?"
"Especially then."
Nash studies my face for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. "He must have been important to you."
"He was the closest thing to a father I ever had." The admission slips out before I can stop it, revealing more than I intended about the lonely academic existence that led me to this frozen wilderness.
Nash doesn't push for more details, doesn't probe the emotional wound I've just exposed. Instead, he flips the fish, revealing a golden-brown surface that looks like something from a restaurant rather than a wilderness survival meal.
"Eat," he says simply, plating the fish on a metal camp plate and handing it to me along with a metal spork.
I take the first bite tentatively, expecting guilt or disgust to overwhelm the taste. Instead, I discover flesh that's tender and clean, with a subtle flavor that speaks of cold mountain water and wild places. My body responds immediately, demanding more of the protein it's been craving.
The second bite goes down easier, then the third. I've consumed half the fish before I notice, my body's need overriding the barriers I've maintained for years.
"Better?" Nash asks, preparing his own portion.
"Yes." I set down the fork, surprised by how much of the fish I've consumed. "Thank you. For pushing me to eat it."
"For what it's worth, that trout lived a better life than any factory-farmed chicken. Ate what it wanted, went where it wanted, died quickly and cleanly."
"I know." I watch him eat his own meal with the straightforward appreciation of someone who understands food as fuel rather than philosophy. "It's not logical, my resistance to wild meat. But logic and emotion don't always align."
"No, they don't. But survival has a way of clarifying what really matters."
We finish eating without talking, the protein bringing warmth and energy that I'd forgotten was possible. The constant tremor in my hands subsides, and the fog that's clouded my thinking for days begins to lift. I feel human again, capable, strong enough to continue the search for Waldo.
As Nash cleans the cooking equipment, I find myself studying him with new eyes. The way he prepared the fish, the respect he showed for the animal, the patience he's demonstrated with my dietary restrictions, none of it matches the image of hunters I've carried for years.
"Nash?" I say as he packs away the cooking gear.
"Yeah?" He looks up.
"When you hunt, do you always use everything?"
"Always. Meat, hide, bones if they're useful. Taking a life means using what you've taken." He pauses, meeting my gaze directly. "Waste is disrespectful."
"The deer on your cabin wall, you used all of it?"
"Fed my family for three months. Hide went to a local craftsman who makes winter gear. Bones went to my neighbor's dogs." Nash holds my eyes. "Nothing wasted, nothing taken for sport."
The concept challenges every assumption I've made about hunting culture. What he practices is stewardship by someone who understands the true cost of taking life, a world away from the trophy-seeking, resource-wasting industry I've imagined.
"I've been wrong about some things," I admit. It's true and I know it and I'm tired of pretending otherwise.
"Most people are. City folks especially. They want their meat to come from somewhere clean and distant, wrapped in plastic with no connection to the animal it came from."
"And that's worse than hunting?"
"Factory farming? Animals that never see sunlight, never choose where to go or what to eat, live in misery from birth to death?" Nash shoulders his pack. "Yeah, I think that's worse."
The comparison forces me to confront an uncomfortable truth.
The industrial meat system I've supported through grocery store purchases causes far more suffering than Nash's careful, respectful hunting.
I've been complicit in something I find morally objectionable while condemning something that might actually be more ethical.
"Ready to keep moving?" Nash asks.
I stand, testing my strength and finding it dramatically improved after the meal. My legs feel solid again, capable of handling the demanding terrain ahead. The protein has given me back the energy I need to continue searching for Waldo.
"Ready," I say, meaning it.
As we pack up and head back toward the snowmobiles, my stride is steadier and the pack feels manageable again. The trout is metabolizing into actual warmth.
The deer on the wall. The fish from the creek. The oatmeal with cranberries.
I came up here planning to survive on principle. Turns out principle has a daily caloric limit.
Nash is already fifty feet ahead, reading the terrain the way he reads everything, like it's information he's responsible for. I watch him for two seconds longer than necessary, then follow.
At the tree line, cut clean into the crust, a single line of tracks crosses ours and disappears into the timber. Canid. Big. Nash's eyes pass over them and keep moving, too smooth, too casual. He doesn't mention them. So I don't either.