Silence. "You're flying to Seattle?"
"No," I say. "I'll be at the airfield in twenty minutes, and Hank's mail run leaves for Port Promise in an hour. I'm going to be on it."
"Aris," Nash says, his voice dropping. "You just got there. You have a hotel room. You have a shower."
"I know. But something clarified."
"What?"
"I hate brunch," I say. "I hate Cobb salads. And I really, really miss the woods."
"The woods," Nash repeats dryly. "Just the woods?"
"And the guide," I admit. "Mostly the guide. Even if he yells at wrenches."
Nash laughs, a real, loud laugh that echoes down the line. "Finn is a snitch. Get on the plane, Aris."
"I'm getting on the plane."
"Good. Because the generator's acting up again and it's cold out here."
"I'll keep you warm," I promise.
"You better."
I hang up. I stack the field samples on the dresser and grab my suitcase, half empty without them. Hotel storage can hold them until I come back through. The space they left is for whiskey. I run out of the hotel room. I leave the expensive salad untouched. I leave the beige walls behind.
Civilization was nice for about six hours. But I'm done with mimosas and meetings and men with soft hands.
I'm going back to the chaos. I'm going back to the snow.
And this time, I'm bringing better snacks.
Chapter Twenty-Two
NASH
I've never beena nervous man. I've faced down charging grizzlies with a steady pulse, landed a snowmobile on a moving ice floe during a spring breakup when the black water was churning like a blender, and navigated whiteout blizzards with nothing but a magnetic compass and a gut feeling that told me left was death and right was safety.
But standing on the wooden pier at Port Promise waiting for the mail plane on a clear Tuesday evening? That, apparently, will be my breaking point.
For now, I'm pacing in the generator shed at Misty Meadows, a twelve-by-twelve box of corrugated metal and diesel fumes that usually serves as my sanctuary. It's a place of logic, a place where inputs equal outputs and if something is broken, you can fix it with a wrench and some swearing.
Today, it feels like a cage.
The sat radio crackles on the workbench. I know who it is before I pick up.
"Grumpy, come in. I know you're pacing." Finn's voice, thin and pleased through the static. "Hank called his manifest in to May an hour ago. The whole island knows who's on the evening run. Over."
"I am not pacing, Finn. Over."
"Bet you a case of beer you're polishing the torque wrench right now. You only polish that thing when you're wound tight enough to strip threads."
"I am not—" I look down. My hand is on the torque wrench. I put it down like it burned me. "That's called maintenance. It's what prevents mechanical failure. You should try it sometime instead of just kicking things until they work."
"I prefer percussive maintenance. It's more cathartic. Also, you're deflecting."
"I am not deflecting."
