"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 tohim. 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?"
