"We have to run," Aris says, panic flaring in her eyes, melting the lethargy. She tries to pull away from me, to move faster.
"Easy," I say, gripping her hand. "Panic kills. We keep moving. Steady."
But we move faster. We scramble over rocks that tear our pants and slide down embankments. The howling gets closer, drifting on the wind, a chorus of ghosts nipping at our heels.
It pushes us past the point of exhaustion, past the point of pain. We're running on instinct now, two animals fleeing a larger predator.
When we finally break through the tree line and see the river, it looks like a hallucination. And there, a tiny black speck against the white ice, is the snowmobile.
"There," I wheeze, pointing with a shaking hand. "Chariot awaits."
We practically slide down the last slope, tumbling in a cloud of snow, landing in a heap at the bottom.
Seeing the machine feels like seeing a long-lost friend. I pat the seat, my hand shaking uncontrollably.
"If I never see a pair of snowshoes again, it will be too soon," Aris says, her voice thick.
I mount up in front of her. "Hold on."
The ride back to camp is a blur of cold wind and exhaustion. When we finally pull into our little campsite, the circle of trampled snow, the fire pit, the tent, it looks like the most luxurious accommodation on earth.
I kill the engine and let the quiet catch up to us. We sit there for a minute, neither of us moving.
"We did it," Aris whispers against my back. "We got the collar off."
"We did."
"Waldo is free."
"Waldo is free," I agree. "And minus one herd member."
"Yeah." Her voice drops. "The young bull."
"He bought the rest of them time," I say. "He did his job."
We climb off the machine. We're moving like old people, all stiff joints and groans.
"I'll start the fire," I say. "You get inside. Get warm."
"No," she says. "I help. Division of labor."
She grabs the hatchet, and starts shaving kindling. I watch her for a second, my throat going tight again.
We build the fire together and melt snow for water. We eat rehydrated chili that tastes like Michelin-star cuisine.
We don't talk about the wolves or the fall. We sit shoulder to shoulder, staring into the flames, letting the heat soak into our bones.
"Nash," she says after a while.
"Yeah?"
"We leave tomorrow, don't we?"
I look at her. "We have the collar. The research part is done. We need to retrieve the data from the unit, but … yeah. We're done here."
Six weeks was the plan. The wolves negotiated it down to two.
"So we go back to the lodge."
