Chapter Fourteen
NASH
Confidence is a dangerous thing in the wilderness.
Inexperience keeps you cautious. Fear keeps you alert. But confidence? Confidence is usually what gets you hurt.
I watch Aris move through the campsite with her new "Woodswoman" swagger. She's chopping kindling with the hatchet, her movements decisive and strong. A week ago, she held the tool like it was a live snake. Now, she's splitting spruce with a rhythmic thwack-crack that echoes off the valley walls.
She's wearing my spare wool shirt again, sleeves rolled up, her hair tied back in a messy knot. She looks capable, resilient.
She looks like trouble.
"You're going to dull the blade if you hit the dirt," I call out from where I'm servicing the snowmobile engine.
She doesn't miss a beat. Thwack. "I'm not hitting the dirt. I'm utilizing the stump's surface area. Physics, Nash."
"Physics doesn't sharpen steel," I mutter, though my mouth disagrees.
We've fallen into a routine in the two days since the "Ecosystem Lesson.
" The tension has moved from hostile to domestic, which is infinitely worse for my peace of mind.
We share meals and chores. We share a tent that's far too small for two people trying to pretend they aren't thinking about kissing each other every time the lights go out.
What she didn't see this morning was the line of fresh wolf tracks along the camp perimeter, two sets pressed deep in the crust. I scuffed snow over them before she unzipped the tent.
"Signal check?" she asks, sticking the hatchet into the stump and wiping her brow.
"Scheduled for noon," I say, checking my watch. "Ten minutes."
"I'm going to head up to the outcrop," she says, pointing to a granite shelf about fifty feet above our camp. "Better line of sight for the telemetry. If Waldo moved into the next drainage, I won't pick him up from down here."
"I'll come with you," I say, wiping grease from my hands.
"I got it," she says, grabbing the receiver and the metal H-antenna. "You finish the plugs. If that engine dies, we're walking, remember?"
"Aris—"
"I'll be right there," she says, pointing up. "Visual contact the whole time. I have the bear spray. I have the radio. I am a fully autonomous field researcher."
She flashes me a grin, bright, teasing, and utterly disarming. "Trust me."
I hesitate. The engine does need the plugs cleaned; the cold starts are getting rougher. And the outcrop is right there. I can see it from where I'm standing.
"Fine," I say, picking up the wrench. "But stay off the ice patches. The sun's melting the top layer, making it slick."
"Roger that, Guide."
She shoulders the gear and starts climbing. I watch her for the first thirty feet, noting how she tests her footholds. She's careful. She's learning.
I turn back to the engine, cranking the ratchet on the number two cylinder.
We aren't friends. Friends don't memorize the way the other person takes their coffee.
I pull the plug, inspecting the gap. It's fouled with carbon. I grab the wire brush and start scrubbing.
A scrape.
The sound is distinct, a boot skidding on stone.
Then a gasp. A scramble.
"Aris!" I drop the wrench and spin around.
She's near the top of the outcrop. She's not falling, thank God, but she's scrambling for balance on a shelf of rock. The telemetry receiver is swinging wildly from its strap around her neck.
But the antenna …
I watch in slow motion as the metal H-antenna slips from her grasp. It bounces once on the granite shelf, flips end-over-end, and plummets.
It hits the rocks below with a sickening crunch of aluminum.
Then silence.
Aris stands frozen on the ledge, looking down. I run to the base of the cliff, breath sticking in my chest.
"Are you okay?" I yell. "Aris!"
She doesn't answer. She stares at the twisted metal in the snow.
She climbs down, clumsy and frantic, with none of the "Woodswoman" confidence. She slips twice, banging her knees against the granite, but she doesn't seem to notice.
She reaches the bottom and drops to her knees beside the antenna.
I skid to a stop next to her. "Aris, are you hurt?"
She ignores me. She reaches out with trembling hands and picks up the antenna.
It's destroyed. The central boom is snapped in half. The elements, the metal rods that actually catch the signal, are bent into pretzels. The coaxial cable connector has been sheared off completely.
"No," she whispers. "No, no, no."
"Let me see," I say, reaching for it.
She pulls it against her chest, clutching the broken metal like a wounded bird. "I broke it. I slipped. The ice … I just slipped."
"Aris, it's okay. It's just gear."
"It's not just gear!" She looks up at me, and her face is a mask of devastation that cuts me to the bone. "This is the only antenna. The spare was in the lost sled. Without this, we can't track the collar."
She looks at the receiver box hanging around her neck. "We can't hear the ping. We can't find him. We can't trigger the release."
She drops the antenna in the snow and buries her face in her hands. "I ruined it. I ruined everything. The phone, the generator, and now this. I've failed."
"You didn't ruin the phone," I say firmly, kneeling beside her. "That was an accident. This was an accident."
"It was arrogance!" She hits her thighs with her fists, a gesture of pure frustration. "I wanted to show off. I wanted to be the 'autonomous researcher.' And I destroyed the one thing, the only thing, that mattered."
She starts to cry. Not the quiet, polite crying she did when we found the starving herd. This is ugly, ragged sobbing. It's the sound of three years of pressure, grief, and exhaustion finally breaking through the dam.
"I promised him," she chokes out. "I promised Thaddeus. And I … I broke it."
I don't think about professional boundaries. I don't think about the "friends" agreement.
I reach out and pull her into me.
She resists for a second, her body rigid with shame, and then she collapses. She buries her face in my chest, grabbing handfuls of my jacket, and sobs.
"I've got you," I murmur, wrapping my arms around her. I press my chin to the top of her head, rocking her slightly. "I've got you, Aris. It's okay."
"It's not okay," she sobs into my coat. "It's over. The mission is over."
"It's not over," I say, and my voice is fierce. "We are Hollister Wilderness Logistics, remember? We don't quit because things break. We figure it out."
She just cries harder, shaking against me.
I hold her in the snow, ignoring the cold seeping into my knees. I rub her back, making shushing noises, feeling the wet heat of her tears soaking through my layers.
And as I hold her, something clarifies with terrifying simplicity: the mission doesn't matter. The caribou doesn't matter. None of it does.
If I could snap my fingers and fix that antenna, I wouldn't do it to save the expedition. I'd do it just to stop her from making that sound.
I would burn the whole forest down if it kept her warm.
"Come on," I say softly, when the sobbing starts to subside into hiccups. "We're not fixing this in the snow. Let's go to the tent."
"I can't," she whispers. "I can't look at it."
"Then don't look at it. Look at me."
I pull back enough to cup her face in my gloved hands. Her eyes are red, her nose is running, and she looks completely broken.
"Look at me, Aris."
She blinks, focusing on my face.
"We are not done," I tell her. "I have baling wire.
I have pliers. I have a soldering iron in the emergency kit and a solar battery to run it.
The sat phone's at the bottom of the river with the generator—that we can't fix.
But the antenna, we can. I have fixed snowmobile suspensions with paracord and hope. We are going to fix this."
"You can't fix the geometry," she whispers, but there's a tiny spark of desperate hope in her eyes.
"Watch me," I say. "Now up. Before we both freeze to the ground."
I help her stand. She's unsteady, drained. I keep my arm around her waist, taking her weight.
We walk back to the tent. I sit her down on the sleeping bag and wrap a blanket around her.
"Stay," I order.
I go back outside and retrieve the broken antenna. I gather my tool kit. I grab the solar battery.
When I come back in, she's sitting exactly where I left her, staring at nothing.
I sit cross-legged in front of her. I lay the broken pieces out on the tent floor between us.
"Okay," I say, picking up the pliers. "Physics class is in session. Tell me the dimensions."
She sniffs, wiping her nose with her sleeve. "The … the dipole elements need to be 48 centimeters."
"48 centimeters," I repeat, straightening a bent rod. "We can do that."
"The impedance match …"
"We'll bridge it," I say. "I'll strip the coax. We'll solder it directly to the boom."
We work for three hours.
It's delicate, frustrating work. My hands are too big for the tiny connections, but I force them steady while Aris holds the pieces, hers still trembling slightly.
We don't talk about the accident. We talk about the metal, the solder, the connection.
"Hold this," I say, pressing the hot iron to the wire.
She holds it. She's focused now, the scientist taking over from the grieving child.
"Steady," she whispers.
"Done."
I sit back, inspecting our handiwork. It's ugly, covered in black electrical tape and baling wire. It looks like Frankenstein's monster.
"It looks terrible," she says, her voice hoarse.
"It looks like survival," I correct. "Turn on the receiver."
She picks up the box. She flips the switch. Static hisses from the speaker, white noise.
"Gain up," I say.
She turns the dial.
Hiss … crackle …
And then, faint but distinct: Ping.
Silence.
Ping.
Aris gasps. Her hands fly to her mouth.
"It works," she whispers. "Oh my god. It works."
Ping.
It's the heartbeat of the mission, the sound of Waldo.
She looks at the ugly, taped-up antenna, and then she looks at me. Fresh tears well up in her eyes, but these are different.
"You fixed it," she says.
"We fixed it."
"No," she says, shaking her head. She crawls over the sleeping bag, closing the distance between us. "You fixed it. You didn't give up. Even when I did."
She's close now. Too close. The tent is warm from the soldering iron and our bodies. The air is heavy with relief and exhaustion and want.
"Aris," I say warningly.
"Don't," she whispers. "Don't tell me about boundaries, Nash. Not right now."
She reaches out and touches my face. Her hand is warm. Her thumb brushes my cheekbone, tracing the line of my jaw.
"You saved the mission," she says softly. "But I think … I think you saved me too."
I look at her lips, at her eyes, wide and unguarded. I feel the last of my resistance crumbling like the shale on that cliff.
I saved the antenna. I saved the expedition.
But looking at her now, with her heart in her eyes and her hand on my face, I know I can't save myself.