I close my eyes, seeing it again—her on the ice, soaked and freezing, explaining leverage while I held up a snowmobile. Not panicking. Then her across the fire last night, wearing my shirt, soot on her cheek, not scared of the dark anymore.
I gently, carefully, lift her arm off me. She stirs but doesn't wake. I slide out of the sleeping bag, unzip the door with agonizing slowness, and roll out into the cold.
The morning air hits me like a bucket of ice water. Good. I need it.
I stand up, stretching the stiffness out of my back. The river is a ribbon of white silence below us. The hole where we lost the sled has frozen over, leaving just a dark, jagged scar on the ice to mark where our generator and satellite phone went down.
I walk over to the surviving sled. We have food. We have fuel for the machine. We have the solar panels. We're not going to die. But the margin for error just got razor-thin.
I set up the solar array, angling the panels to catch the weak winter sun. It's going to take all day to charge the collar batteries this way. Patience. That's the new game.
"Nash?"
I turn. Aris is crawling out of the tent. She looks wrecked, hair a tangled mess, eyes puffy, wearing my oversized wool shirt like a dress. She looks absolutely beautiful.
"Morning," I say, turning back to the stove to start coffee. "How did you sleep?"
"Like the dead," she says, standing up and wrapping her arms around herself. She looks at the river, then at the solar panels, and then her eyes widen.
"What day is it?"
The question comes out sharp, panicked.
"Friday," I say. "Why?"
She goes pale. "Friday. It's Friday."
She starts patting her pockets, then stops, remembering. Her hand goes to her mouth. "Oh god. The check-in. The weekly check-in."
"Aris, your phone went down with the sled," I say, as gently as I can. "And even if it hadn't, the cold would have killed the battery by now."
"I know, I know, but I didn't … I didn't process the day." She starts pacing, tramping a frantic circle in the snow. "Dean Reynolds calls every Friday at noon. Sharp. If I don't answer, he logs it. One missed check-in with no explanation, and he has everything he needs to trigger the clause."
"The clause?"
"The 'Non-Compliance/Safety Protocol' clause," she recites, like it's a scripture she's memorized. "It allows the university to freeze the grant funds immediately and recall the expedition if the lead researcher fails to maintain consistent communication."
She stops pacing and looks at me, her eyes wild. "They'll pull the money, Nash. It's over."
"Aris, stop." I walk over to her, putting my hands on her shoulders to halt her spinning. "Breathe. You're in the Arctic. Accidents happen. Equipment fails. When we get back, you explain it."
"You don't explain things to Reynolds. He's the dean!" She pulls away from me, her voice rising. "He controls everything, Nash! My tenure track, my lab space, my reputation. If he pulls the plug, I go back to being a junior adjunct teaching Intro to Biology to hungover freshmen. I lose Waldo. I lose Thaddeus's legacy."
I watch her crumble. This anxiety is deeper and more corrosive than the physical fear she showed on the first day, the sort born of a life spent pleasing people in offices who have never stepped foot outside a city.
I hate Dean Reynolds. I've never met the man, but I want to punch him.
I pour a cup of coffee and walk over to her. "Drink this."
She takes it automatically, her hands shaking.
"Aris, look at me."
She lifts her head. Her eyes are wet.
"You are not going to lose your career," I say firmly. "You know why?"
"Why?"
