"We should make camp," I say finally. "Storm's coming."
She follows my gaze to the darkening sky, and I watch her read the signs I've been teaching her: the way the wind has shifted, the pressure change that makes the air feel heavy, the behavior of birds seeking shelter.
"How long do we have?"
"Couple hours, maybe less."
We spend the next hour setting up a proper camp in a protected grove of spruce trees that will provide windbreak and shelter. Aris works alongside me with growing competence, anticipating what needs to be done without being told. She's learned the rhythm of wilderness living, understands the importance of preparation over speed.
"Like this?" she asks, securing a guy line with the knots I taught her.
"Perfect." I test the tension, impressed by how quickly she's mastered skills that took me years to learn. "You're a natural."
"I have a good teacher," she says again, but this time she means it differently.
The storm hits just after we finish preparations, wind driving snow horizontally through the forest. But our shelter holds, and the camp stove provides warmth and the ability to cook a proper meal.
We settle into the tent with steaming bowls of stew, made with dried meat that Aris now accepts without hesitation. It's cramped and intimate, and it smells of damp wool and down sleeping bags.
"Tell me about your family," she says as the storm rages outside.
"Not much to tell. Six of us—Kane, me, Finn, and the twins—plus Eliza, who married Matt Ryder out of the blue and lives at Serenity Cove now with their boy. We lost Mom last year. Dad's still in the house, still working through it. He won't leave that house. Won't even rearrange the furniture. We mostly raised each other before that, and we mostly look after each other now."
"That must have been hard."
"It was honest. Granddad didn't pretend things were easier than they were, but he taught us to take care of ourselves and each other."
"Is that why you all stayed in Alaska?"
"We found what worked for us here. Kane runs his boats and his daughter out of The Ridge—he's the oldest, and was the only one of us with a kid until Eliza and Matt sorted that out. Finn runs the lodge at Crystal Creek and most days runs the rest of us with it. Rhys keeps the books at the general store down at Birch Bay—color-codes his spreadsheets, complains about my receipts, calls every fourth Tuesday to remind me my supplier invoice is overdue. Reid runs the Kingfisher, his charter boat, out of Lantern Bay. He drives her too hard and won her in apoker game in Anchorage, which tells you everything you need to know. Eliza made a good life of her own, well clear of all of us. Each of us found a way to make a living from what the land offers."
I sit back a little. "Reid drives like Han Solo shoots—recklessly, and somehow always first. Rhys is his C-3PO, complete with better hair." I shrug. "Twins. They chose different sides of the Force."
"And you guide people into country that could kill them."
"I keep people safe while they experience something real. Most folks spend their lives insulated from anything that matters: real weather, real risk, real connection to the natural world." I set down my empty bowl, meeting her eyes across the small space. "You understand that better than most."
"Do I?"
"You left everything comfortable and familiar to chase an animal through some of the most unforgiving country in North America. That's either crazy or worth everything."
"Which do you think it is?"
"Both," I say, and the honesty in my voice surprises me. "The best things usually are."
She studies my face in the flickering light of the lantern, and I catch something unguarded in her expression before she puts the walls back up. We're alone in a tent in the middle of a wilderness storm, closer than we've been since starting this expedition, and the air between us hums with possibilities neither of us is ready to acknowledge.
"Nash?" Her voice is soft, uncertain. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not giving up on me. For teaching me to see things differently. For helping me understand that keeping promises matters more than maintaining comfortable illusions."
The gratitude in her voice hits me harder than it should. She's looking at me like I've given her something precious, but all I've done is show her truths that were already there.
"You don't need to thank me for doing my job."
"This isn't about the job anymore."
