I open the laptop and spin it around. I pull up the image of Waldo in the box canyon, the one I took seconds before the wolf attack. He looks majestic, powerful, and very much alive. The sheer black cliffs rise behind him, framing him like a king in his fortress.
"This is Subject 808," I say. "Waldo. As you can see, his body condition score is a 4.5 out of 5. He has successfully navigated the winter range, despite heavy predation pressure."
Reynolds leans in, squinting. "And the collar?"
"Recovered," I say. "It released yesterday at 13:42 hours. We have three years of continuous movement data, plus the high-resolution interval data from the last two weeks."
Reynolds leans back, steepling his fingers. He looks disappointed that I succeeded. It would have been easier for him if I'd failed, cleaner for the budget.
"That is … fortunate," he says coolly. "However, Dr. Thorne, the issue remains regarding your communication blackout. The safety protocols?—"
"The safety protocols were designed for a controlled environment," I interrupt.
Reynolds blinks. His mouth opens slightly. I never interrupt. Old Aris would have sat there, apologized, and written a three-page explanatory memo.
But Old Aris didn't crawl onto a river of ice and save a snowmobile with a shovel. New Aris has zero patience for a man whose biggest predator is the faculty senate.
"I lost the satellite phone in a river crossing," I say, leaning forward. My voice is calm, dangerous. "My guide and I were executing a tactical retreat from a pack of timber wolves that had flanked our position. We prioritized the survival of the data, and ourselves, over the weekly conference call."
Reynolds looks pale. He loosens his tie. "Wolves? You were … attacked?"
"It was a dynamic interspecies interaction," I say, using his own bureaucratic language against him like a weapon. "We observed a localized apex predator population attempting a resource acquisition strategy. We were the resource."
"Good lord." He wipes his forehead. "And the guide? Mr … Hollister?"
"Mr. Hollister performed optimally," I say. "His logistics saved the university a significant liability lawsuit. I trust you will be approving his full invoice? Including the hazard pay I intend to add?"
Reynolds swallows hard. "Well, yes. Of course. If the data is as good as you say …"
"It's better," I promise. "It proves Thaddeus Brine's theory about micro-migration. It's going to get us the National Science Foundation grant, Dean. It's going to put this department on the cover of Nature. It's going to make you look like a visionary for supporting it."
I see the dollar signs flash in his eyes. The fear of wolves is replaced by the greed for prestige.
"Well," he says, his expression going smooth and accommodating. "In that case, I suppose we can overlook the … procedural hiccups. I'll lift the funding freeze immediately."
"Excellent." I stand up. "I also need an advance on the summer budget."
"Summer?" He looks alarmed. "Dr. Thorne, you just got back."
"The collar is off," I say. "But now we need to track the calving grounds. I need to be back in the field by June. And I'll need to retain Mr. Hollister's services exclusively."
"Exclusively?" Reynolds raises an eyebrow. "Is that necessary? There are cheaper outfitters in Fairbanks."
I think of Nash cooking venison steaks, of him holding me on the mountain, of how he looked at me this morning on the dock.
"Logistically imperative," I say with a straight face. "He's the only one who knows the terrain. And frankly, Dean, he's the only one I trust to keep me from becoming wolf chow. Unless you'd like to volunteer to carry the rifle?"
Reynolds recoils. "Heavens, no. Submit the requisition."
"Done."
I walk out of the office feeling lighter than I have in years. I didn't just win. I dominated.
I spend the next four hours in the server room, ensuring the upload completes. It's boring. It's quiet. The hum of the servers is hypnotic and sterile.
By four o'clock, I'm done. I've saved my career and secured the funding. I'm officially a success.
I check into a hotel downtown, the nice one, with the view of the river and the 400-thread-count sheets.
