"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.
