“The Iñupiat have stories about wolves,” Mr. Boone said. “Old ones.”
The fire cracked. Something moved beyond the ring of light. Probably wind.
“They spoke of the Amarok—giant wolves that hunted alone. Not packs. One.”
He nudged the fire, sparks lifting and vanishing into the dark.
“There’s a story about a young hunter who decided he didn’t need his village anymore. Said he moved faster by himself. Quieter. Took risks no group would.”
Mr. Boone paused, letting the fire pop.
“On the third night, he heard it.”
We leaned in without meaning to.
“Not a growl. Not footsteps. Just the sound of snow shifting where it shouldn’t. Always behind him. Always close enough to feel.”
He glanced into the trees, then back at the fire.
“He stopped sleeping. Every time he closed his eyes, the silence pressed in harder than the cold. He started talking out loud, just to hear another voice—even if it was his own.”
Leigh swallowed. “What happened to him?”
Boone shrugged.
“Some say he dropped his pack and ran for the village when he finally understood what alone really meant. Others say the Amarok walked away the moment the man turned back.”
The fire cracked, sharp and loud.
“And some say the snow kept his tracks, but the village never saw him again.”
"Cheerful," Sandy muttered.
"Old stories usually aren't." He stood, brushing off his pants. "Get some sleep. We've got fifteen miles tomorrow."
The group broke apart slowly, drifting toward tents. I stayed by the fire, watching the embers pulse.
"Hey."
James dropped onto the log beside me. Close enough that I could feel his warmth, far enough that we weren't touching.
"Hey."
"Good story."
"If you like being told you're going to die alone in the wilderness."
He laughed quietly. "That's not what it was about and you know it."
I did know it. That was the problem.
"You kept up today," I said, instead of acknowledging his point.
"Barely. You set a hell of a pace."
"Mr. Boone told me to slow down."
"Good thing he did. Sandy was about to commit murder."
