It lets it burn hotter, deep down where you can't see it until it's too late.
"He's moving again," Nash says. "Heading for the basin."
"Let's follow him," I say. "Where's Waldo going now?"
"Hopefully," Nash says, packing the scope, "somewhere easier to handle than where we are."
I look at the set of his shoulders. He won't meet my eyes. I think. Unlikely.
Chapter Ten
NASH
Friends.
The word tastes like weak coffee, lukewarm, unsatisfying, leaving a bitter residue on the back of my tongue.
I watch Aris move through the spruce thicket ahead of me. She's navigating the deep snow with a grace she didn't possess a week ago, placing her snowshoes carefully to minimize noise, her body angled to protect the expensive camera gear strapped to her chest.
She looks like she belongs here.
She's reading wind direction without licking a finger. She's eating dried venison jerky (though she still calls it "survival protein" to make herself feel better). She's making jokes about a caribou named after a cartoon character.
And she's walking away from me.
Technically, we're walking together toward the basin where Waldo has bedded down, but metaphorically? Every step she takes feels like practice for the day she walks toward the floatplane that will take her back to Seattle.
Friends.
"Nash," she whispers, raising a fist in the silent signal for stop.
I freeze instantly, sinking onto one knee in the snow. "What do you see?"
She lowers her hand and points toward a stand of willow saplings about fifty yards out. "Browse marks. Fresh. The bark is stripped clean, but the wood hasn't oxidized yet. It's still white."
I move up beside her, checking the sign. She's right. The willow branches have been shredded, the inner cambium layer exposed and bright against the gray winter landscape.
"Good eye," I murmur. "Less than an hour old."
She beams at the praise, small and quick, and it lands square in my chest. "I have a good teacher."
"You're a quick study. Most people need a season to spot browse that subtle."
"Thaddeus taught me to look for color changes," she says, shifting her weight. "He said nature paints in muted tones, so anything bright is usually a sign of disruption. Broken branches, fresh earth, blood."
"He was right about that." I scan the perimeter, my eyes automatically searching for the third item on her list. "We're close. If they're feeding this heavily, they're refueling after the storm."
"Waldo will be in the center," she says, pulling up the GPS data on her wrist unit. "He keeps the cows on the perimeter when they feed. It's the opposite of his bedding strategy."
"Smart. He uses them as sentries while he eats, then protects them while they sleep."
"It's a symbiotic trade-off," she says, tapping the screen. "He provides the navigation and the trail-breaking; they provide the early warning system."
"Sounds like a marriage." It's out before I can stop it.
The air between us goes still.
Aris looks up from her wrist, her eyes wide. "I … I suppose it does."
