It should feel like home. It should feel like enough.
But unease coils in my gut like a serpent. Because I know what Arvid said is true. Ignoring the call has a cost. And I don’t know if I have enough left in me to pay it when the time comes.
I sit there in the dark, cup forgotten in my hand, and at last, I let myself admit the thing that gnaws at me, the thing I’ve buried under ice and solitude.
I am afraid.
Not of the bear. Not of Darius. Not even Roman.
I am afraid of hope.
And tonight, against the silence of the Arctic, hope pulses under my ribs like a second heart, refusing to be smothered.
2
ANGIE
My fingers are half-frozen, but I refuse to admit defeat. The wind keeps shoving my curls across my face, tangling them in my scarf, but I grit my teeth and keep fiddling with the drone’s stabilizer. The little machine wobbles on the ice like it’s drunk, its tiny blinking lights making it look like a stubborn firefly lost in a snowstorm.
“Okay, baby, stay with me,” I mutter, tightening a screw with numb fingers. “You are going to fly, you are going to capture the most stunning footage National Geographic wishes they had, and you are going to make me famous. Or at least keep me from getting fired. No pressure.”
The recorder clipped to my jacket blinks red, catching every word. I talk to it because silence makes me itch, and because somewhere down the line, an editor might find my rambling charming. Or maybe they’ll cut it all and leave me looking like a stoic professional who never swears at faulty equipment. Either way, the recorder stays on.
I step back, boots crunching in the snow, and hold the remote higher. The drone lifts with a soft whir, climbing shakily into the pale Arctic sky. I whoop, clapping my gloved hands together.“Yes! That’s what I’m talking about. See, persistence always pays off. My grandmother would be proud, except she always told me I should’ve gone to law school, so maybe not. Still. Victory!”
The dogs in their harnesses behind me perk up, ears twitching. Skipper, the lead, gives a soft huff as if to say,Finally, now we can stop freezing while you talk to toys.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I call back to him. “You’ll thank me when I sell this footage and can afford to buy you better booties. Prada for sled dogs, huh? Bet you’d like that.”
He blinks at me with patient canine disdain, and I grin, teeth aching from the cold. The drone is already sweeping out toward the floes, its camera sending back shaky but glorious footage of ice ridges catching the weak sun, a jagged blue-white landscape stretching forever. I shift my mittens and focus, keeping the horizon steady in the frame.
The earpiece crackles. “Angie,” a sharp voice barks, “tell me you’re getting something usable and not just another snowpile.”
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. “Good evening to you too, Gordon,” I chirp. “And yes, I am currently recording ice, snow, frozen water, and oh—wait for it—more ice. You’re welcome.”
“Angie,” he sighs, like he’s already aged ten years since hiring me. “We need something marketable. Drama. A story. People don’t want endless sheets of frozen wasteland. They want danger, they want human connection, they want the kind of footage that makes them gasp.”
“You mean you want me to find a polar bear mauling a seal, zoom in real close, and put dramatic music over it?” I say, my voice dry as kindling.
“If you can manage it, sure,” Gordon shoots back.
I laugh, sharp and loud, the sound bouncing off the ice. “You’re unbelievable. You know the rules, right? Ethical filming? No staging, no provoking, no baiting predators like some hack from cable TV.”
“Don’t get self-righteous with me, Angie. You signed a contract. Deliver something that’ll keep investors interested or this project is over. No more funding, no more dogs, no more cozy little tents. You’ll be on the next flight home with nothing but debt to keep you company.”
The line clicks dead before I can argue, which is probably for the best, because I have a talent for cursing that would’ve made the recording unfit for broadcast. I tug my scarf down and mutter, “Well, wasn’t that motivational.”
The drone banks, tilting with the wind, and I lean forward, narrowing my eyes at the monitor. For a moment, I forget Gordon’s voice. There’s something about the way the ice stretches here, sculpted into spires by centuries of storms, light filtering through the ridges until they glow faintly green and blue. It’s alien and breathtaking and humbling, and I can’t stop smiling even though my teeth are chattering.
“This is a story,” I tell the recorder softly. “Not the kind Gordon wants, but a real one. Climate shifts changing the very bones of the world, creatures forced to adapt, the silence of ice holding secrets older than us all.” My throat tightens, not with cold, but with something like reverence. “If I can just capture it right, maybe someone will finally look and understand.”
The drone dips lower, shadow skating across the floes, and that’s when I see them. Tracks. Not the delicate pads of a fox, not the wide splay of a polar bear, but something… strange. Massive. Almost human in shape, if a human foot were twice the size and dragged across the snow with a weight no man could carry. I frown, leaning closer.
“Well, that’s new,” I murmur. The recorder catches the smile in my voice even though unease prickles down my spine. “Note to self: either frostbite is making me hallucinate, or Bigfoot decided to relocate north.”
The tracks vanish where the ice cracks open to sea. The camera catches a faint shadow moving under the floe, but it might be nothing. Might be a seal. Might be a trick of light. I chew my lip, fingers tight on the controls.
The wind gusts harder, and the drone wobbles. I correct quickly, dragging it higher before the feed cuts. Heart hammering, I guide it back toward camp, landing it with a graceless thump on the snow. My gloves shake as I grab it, but I laugh, breath spilling in a cloud.
