He's back to being The Guide, the employee, the man who gets the job done and nothing else.
It should be a relief. It stings like frostbite.
"Right," I say, grabbing the thermos. "Twenty minutes."
The ride to the observation ridge is silent, my grip on his waist light and rigid, his driving a notch faster than usual, as if speed can outrun what's sitting on the seat between us. By the time we've snowshoed the last half-mile and set up in the dwarf spruce overlooking the valley, yesterday's magic of discovery has hardened into the grim determination of data collection.
"There," Nash whispers, pointing.
I raise my binoculars. The herd is there, a few hundred yards downwind. And in the center, unmistakable with his hooked brow tine and massive build, is Waldo.
Seeing him again punches through my internal drama. He really is magnificent. He moves through the deep snow with a power that defies the harsh conditions, breaking trail for the three cows and the younger bull following him.
I start typing furiously, documenting the behavior. Nash watches me for a second, and I catch him trying not to react.
"What?" I ask, pausing.
"Waldo," he says, shaking his head slightly. "I still can't believe you guys call a seven-hundred-pound survival machine 'Waldo.'"
The corners of my mouth pull up, first time today. "It wasn't my idea. Thaddeus named him."
"Let me guess," Nash says, adjusting his scope. "Latin root? Some obscure mythological reference?"
"No. Literally the guy in the striped sweater and beanie."
Nash lowers his binoculars, looking at me with incredulity. "The children's book? Where's Waldo?"
"Thaddeus had a … specific sense of humor." I check the camera settings, capturing a sequence of Waldo digging for lichen. "The first year we tracked him, he was impossible to find. We'd get a satellite ping, fly out, and he'd be gone. Just vanished into the landscape. Thaddeus spent three weeks staring at aerialphotos, cursing, until finally he slammed a map down and yelled, 'Where is he? It's like playing Where's Waldo with a four-legged ghost!'"
Nash chuckles, the sound low and rusty, like something he hasn't used in a while. "So the name stuck."
"It stuck. Thaddeus put 'CHIEF WALDO SPOTTER' on his email signature for the last five years of his career. Said it was for solidarity."
Nash is grinning now, a real grin that reaches his eyes. "I like him. Your Thaddeus. He sounds like he didn't take himself too seriously."
"He took the work seriously," I say softly. "But he knew that if you couldn't laugh at the absurdity of freezing your ass off to find a deer, you wouldn't survive the season."
"Smart man." Nash looks back through the scope. "Though I gotta say, looking at that bull … he doesn't look like a Waldo. He looks like a Tank. Or a Brutus."
"Waldo is incognito," I defend, enjoying the banter. "He's blending in. That's his superpower."
"If you say so." Nash shifts his weight, and his knee brushes mine.
The contact is accidental, minor, meaningless.
It stops the conversation dead.
The laughter evaporates, leaving us sitting in the snow, shoulder to shoulder, with the ghost of last night hanging between us.
Nash doesn't pull away this time. He stays there, his warmth seeping through our layers, a steady point of contact in the vast whiteness.
"Aris," he says. He's not looking at me. He's looking at the caribou, but his voice is focused entirely on me.
"Yeah?" My pulse kicks up, traitorous as ever.
"About last night."
I tighten my grip on the tablet. "We don't have to talk about it."
