I stare into the void.Is this it?This is what the end feels like?I traded twenty-three years of emptiness for a dickless eternity of more emptiness?
That’s on brand.
A shape moves above me, cutting the blackness of afterlife into a silhouette.At first, it’s nothing but a lighter dark.Then my eyes adjust, taking in the outline of a man.
White hair.No, blond.Feathered tufts of it fall from beneath a white, fur-lined hood.He wears white all over, from the long, goose-down parka and immaculate gloves to the tailored snow pants.Not a smudge of dirt on his hiking boots.And that knitted white scarf?It won’t survive a day in this climate.
Did he slide down from heaven on a rainbow?Or just materialize out of the ether?
His face is the kind that glows in the stain-glass windows of an old church, perfect bone structure, backlit by a halo of light.His coat billows around him like a ceremonial robe as he holds out his hands in a peace offering.
“Are you God?”I rasp past cracked lips.
“Yes.”
“Is this a social visit?Or are you on the clock?”
“I’m always working.”
“Answering prayers?”
“Sometimes I save lives.Sometimes I end them.”He sweeps his gaze to the river and returns to me.“Today, I’m your savior.”
“I thought you’d be bigger.”
“I thought you’d be more grateful.”
“No, really.I pictured less clothes.Maybe a tunic.Definitely sandals.But the snow pants are a solid choice.Nobody wants frostbitten nuts.Do you even feel the cold?”
“Do you?”He rips open my coat, exposing my river-soaked chest to the bitter wind.“You’re lucky to be here.”
Lucky?I don’t think so.I fought tooth and nail to get here, and now I want to go back.It’s becoming harder to form words and straighten my thoughts.None of this makes sense.
“You’re hypothermic.”A clinical melody sings through his voice as he rezips my coat.“We need to raise your core temperature.You’re losing heat.”
He talks like a doctor, like a minister, like a man with a plan.
Then he reaches for something, and for a second, I think he’s taking my picture.
A bright flash follows, and I close my eyes against it.More clicks.More flashes.Definitely a camera.
Is he cataloging a miracle?Or documenting a death?
He pulls a thermal blanket from somewhere behind him and kneels like a man in church, tucking the material under my shoulders and ribs.
I can’t lift my head.Or my arms.Opening my eyes is a struggle.“Am I dead?”
“You were.”He carefully removes his gloves, finger by finger, and touches my throat, checking my pulse.“You rose from the dead because of me.I raised you up by my mercy.My miracle.Remember that.”
Warmth blooms as his hands move over me with certainty, quick rubs across my shoulders, tucking the blanket tight, coaxing my limbs into stabbing pins and needles.
If I’m not dead, then… “Where are we?”
“The Brooks Range.”
“Where’s that?”
“In the heart of Alaska’s Arctic region.”He eyes my bloodstained sleeve and turns away to dig through a bag.
