The injury was slight, a dull ache that couldn’t rival the gnawing anxiety, like a breath caught in the frozen air. The sun offered no warmth, no birdsong broke the silence, no green grass softened the landscape. It wasn’t pleasant, but Steve tried to stay calm, whispering Jenny’s name. His eyes remained shut, for how long he couldn’t say—perhaps forever, perhaps only a moment. The snow didn’t pile higher, though it dusted his face, half-burying his body, stirred occasionally by the wind.
“Goddamn, my back.”
He said it with too much drama. No broken spine, no serious wounds, just the emotional weight of loneliness that made him complain about his back. He’d fallen from a helicopter, not too high, landing on soft snow with a jolt to his spine, right above his rifle. Hours earlier, he’d been with the WWF, fitting Bearie Polie with a tracker collar to gather vital data for polar bear conservation. Steve had been struck by its eyes—two small, sharp black points, like obsidian, holding the secrets of the Arctic.
Right now, polar bears were no longer the cuddly giants he’d dreamed of hugging as a child. Before he’d ended up stranded here, he’d sometimes laughed recalling those days: glued to the Discovery Channel, never missing a polar bear segment. His father had bought him a large polar bear plush, despite forbidding his sons from playing with dolls. But a polar bear was an exception.
“Look at your brother Jim,” his father had said, seeing Steve engrossed in the TV. “He wants to be a polar bear expert.”
“Steve’s gonna join the WWF, Dad!”
His father and Jim were researchers, biologists, while Steve was the third generation in a family of animal lovers—his grandfather an ornithologist, his father a reptile specialist, Jim a fish expert. Steve loved animals but wasn’t a polar bear or Arctic specialist. He was a finance guy at a software company, funding polar bear conservation expeditions for the past three years. This was his second year, and he was determined to ensure no more bears were lost to poaching or malnutrition. (Who even wrote that report about starving polar bears?)
The WWF had taught him to use sophisticated Chinese-made equipment and implant trackers on polar bears. They hadn’t, however, taught him how to survive alone in the Arctic or make a polar bear laugh. Steve hoped today wouldn’t be his last, especially since he wasn’t likely to starve—he’d fallen with canned food, a hunting rifle, and some pricey WWF gear, though he couldn’t find his phone after an hour of searching.
For a while, Steve felt better. The wind was gentle, the sun shone on his face, dispelling the dark shadows of despair. A sharp sound came from a black digital box beside him.
“Bip… Bip… Bip…”
That sound? Steve thought, eyes still closed. He focused, the rhythm reminding him of music he hadn’t heard in years. It was the PBIS (Polar Bear Information System), a military-grade tablet costing five thousand dollars, loaded with data on bear body temperature, weight, and recent meals. Only twenty units existed, made exclusively for the WWF and top universities.
Hope flickered. He could pinpoint his location, the ship’s, and the tracked bears’. A green dot marked the monitored bear’s position; a red dot showed the device’s. Bad news: the green dot was moving toward the red—toward him.
“Damn it.”
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