Chapter Fourteen
NASH
Confidence isa dangerous thing in the wilderness.
Inexperience keeps you cautious. Fear keeps you alert. But confidence? Confidence is usually what gets you hurt.
I watch Aris move through the campsite with her new "Woodswoman" swagger. She's chopping kindling with the hatchet, her movements decisive and strong. A week ago, she held the tool like it was a live snake. Now, she's splitting spruce with a rhythmicthwack-crackthat echoes off the valley walls.
She's wearing my spare wool shirt again, sleeves rolled up, her hair tied back in a messy knot. She looks capable, resilient.
She looks like trouble.
"You're going to dull the blade if you hit the dirt," I call out from where I'm servicing the snowmobile engine.
She doesn't miss a beat.Thwack."I'm not hitting the dirt. I'm utilizing the stump's surface area. Physics, Nash."
"Physics doesn't sharpen steel," I mutter, though my mouth disagrees.
We've fallen into a routine in the two days since the "Ecosystem Lesson." The tension has moved from hostile to domestic, which is infinitely worse for my peace of mind. We share meals and chores. We share a tent that's far too small fortwo people trying to pretend they aren't thinking about kissing each other every time the lights go out.
What she didn't see this morning was the line of fresh wolf tracks along the camp perimeter, two sets pressed deep in the crust. I scuffed snow over them before she unzipped the tent.
"Signal check?" she asks, sticking the hatchet into the stump and wiping her brow.
"Scheduled for noon," I say, checking my watch. "Ten minutes."
"I'm going to head up to the outcrop," she says, pointing to a granite shelf about fifty feet above our camp. "Better line of sight for the telemetry. If Waldo moved into the next drainage, I won't pick him up from down here."
"I'll come with you," I say, wiping grease from my hands.
"I got it," she says, grabbing the receiver and the metal H-antenna. "You finish the plugs. If that engine dies, we're walking, remember?"
"Aris—"
"I'll be right there," she says, pointing up. "Visual contact the whole time. I have the bear spray. I have the radio. I am a fully autonomous field researcher."
She flashes me a grin, bright, teasing, and utterly disarming. "Trust me."
I hesitate. The engine does need the plugs cleaned; the cold starts are getting rougher. And the outcrop is right there. I can see it from where I'm standing.
"Fine," I say, picking up the wrench. "But stay off the ice patches. The sun's melting the top layer, making it slick."
"Roger that, Guide."
She shoulders the gear and starts climbing. I watch her for the first thirty feet, noting how she tests her footholds. She's careful. She's learning.
I turn back to the engine, cranking the ratchet on the number two cylinder.
We aren't friends. Friends don't memorize the way the other person takes their coffee.
I pull the plug, inspecting the gap. It's fouled with carbon. I grab the wire brush and start scrubbing.
A scrape.
The sound is distinct, a boot skidding on stone.
Then a gasp. A scramble.
