His dreams were tearing apart. Fragments of childhood, school days, and the Outpost flashed before him, one after another. The last of them were the most vivid. His creations, avatars he had built, took on the forms of living beings. He sat with them on the bank of a great, unnamed river swollen by rain. The river carried uprooted trees, overturned cars, and the remnants of houses. Yet he and his companions sat calmly on the shore, drinking beer from cans and laughing at one another’s jokes, as if none of them noticed the catastrophe unfolding before their eyes.

  Amid that drenched chaos, a scent reached his nostrils, the smell of smoke. That wasn’t right. How could there be smoke in a drowned landscape? He blinked, and light began to seep through the slit his eyelids made. A blackened wooden ceiling came into view. The beams that held it were dark, almost coal-like, or so it seemed in the half-light of the cabin. The next sense to awaken was hearing. The sound, or rather, the absence of it, reminded him of holding a seashell to his ear: a deep hush, punctuated by the faint hiss of fire smoldering in the stove.

  He gathered himself, sat up, and tried to recall the night before. Through a fog, images appeared, the inn, the cursed tea, Hemingway. He looked around for her. The cabin was empty. His belongings were neatly stacked by the bed. He pulled aside the reindeer hide that had kept him warm and saw that he was still dressed. Only his heavy jacket and boots were missing. He slipped them on, found his backpack intact, and instinctively checked his inner pocket. The wallet was there. Everything seemed in place. Hemingway, then, wasn’t one to take advantage of a man’s weakness or carelessness. Good to know, he would need someone he could rely on in this strange, unfamiliar world.

  He stepped to the cabin door and opened it. What greeted him outside took his breath away. For a moment, the white glare of snow blinded him. As his eyes adjusted, the landscape unfolded like a picture postcard. Down the slope, where the cabin stood at its crest, lay a small town nestled in a cove. Rows of narrow streets wove a tapestry of winter peace. Before them, a tiny harbor, its few dozen boats and skiffs resting still on a calm mirror of water. People moved along the docks like ants, carrying barrels of unknown cargo, wooden crates packed with ice and fish, pulling nets, hauling gear. Across the bay, his gaze climbed the opposite slope until it reached the gray stone peaks that encircled the valley. The air was motionless, like a spider waiting in the corner of its web.

  The sting of cold on his face and the crisp air in his lungs soon cleared his head. He exhaled a few clouds of vapor and watched them dissolve into the pale morning, wondering what to do next. Yesterday, when he’d missed his flight, it had seemed a plan might simply emerge later. But no plan had come.

  Then came the sound of an engine, a red pickup climbing the icy road toward the cabin. It skidded, bounced, and finally stopped in front. The driver stepped out: the same girl he’d met the night before, Hemingway. When she saw him standing behind the cabin, she waved and walked toward him.

  Now, in the daylight, Armand could study her more closely. She moved up the slope with quick, confident steps, her dark eyes never leaving him. Her face, gentle, refined, framed by the hood of a fox-fur-trimmed jacket, seemed oddly out of place in this rugged land.

  “Morning, stranger,” she greeted him with a faint smile.

  “Good morning,” he replied.

  “How did you sleep? Everything all right?” she asked, noticing the trace of confusion on his face.

  “Good... I suppose. Still getting used to the situation.”

  “I didn’t mean to leave you alone this morning, but I had to go down to town. Something came up.”

  “No problem. I managed fine.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  He thought for a moment. His mind quickly consulted his growling stomach. When was the last time he’d eaten?

  “Like a wolf... or, more fittingly, a polar bear.”

  Hemingway laughed at the remark and motioned for him to follow her back inside.

  *

  He sat at a rough wooden table, watching her move about as she prepared the meal. He didn’t remember people being that graceful while doing such ordinary things. From the unheated pantry she brought a blue pot speckled with white, its contents frozen solid. Balancing it in her hands, she nudged open the stove door with the toe of her boot, set the pot on the plate, and tossed a few logs into the glowing embers.

  Rising on her toes, she reached for bundles of dried herbs hanging from the beams. She dropped them into the pot and closed the lid. Then she fetched two tin plates and spoons, placing one set before him and the other before herself. Aware of his steady gaze, and of her own discomfort at having company, she occasionally cast him a furtive glance, offering a faint, nervous smile whenever their eyes met. She wasn’t used to guests; the presence of another human being made her a little uneasy.

  Soon, the scent of venison stew filled the cabin, enriched by a blend of herbs. Armand’s stomach twisted and growled. Hemingway took the steaming pot and brought it to the table. She ladled generous portions into their plates, broke a loaf of bread in two, and set the halves beside the dishes. Sitting across from him, she gave him a shy look.

  “Breakfast of champions. Go ahead.”

  He didn’t need a second invitation. The taste caught him off guard. He’d eaten many stews in his life, but nothing like this. The aroma was unreal, the meat tender as silk, the broth, rich with caribou fat, dark flour, and strange dried berries, so intoxicating it nearly made him lightheaded with each spoonful. He ate with full cheeks, nodding and smiling in approval, and Hemingway did much the same.

  , she thought, . It felt good to share a meal with someone again, perhaps for the first time since her father’s death.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  When they finished, Armand leaned back in his chair with a sigh, rubbing his stomach. A warm calm flowed through him. Hemingway, having finished as well, reached for a leather pouch hanging on the wall. She pulled out a long pipe, packed it with tobacco from a small tin, and lit it with a few short puffs. A chocolate-scented cloud curled around her as she looked at him.

  “So... what’s your story, stranger?”

  He hesitated. What could he possibly tell her? The base? The project? No, absolutely not.

  “I was working here. The assignment got suspended, so now I’m figuring out what’s next.”

  “Mysterious,” she said with a half-smile. “All right, have it your way. But considering how out of place you look here, like a unicorn in a coal mine, I’m guessing it wasn’t fishing?” She offered him the pipe.

  He had never smoked a pipe before, but after such a meal, and not wanting to offend her, he took it. He drew a few uncertain puffs. Surprisingly, or perhaps inevitably, the blend of flavors perfectly complemented the fading taste of the stew. His eyes widened in quiet wonder as he looked at her. No explanation was needed.

  “No, not fishing,” he said. “More of a... technical job. And you, what do you do?”

  “Let’s say I’m a guide. For tourists mostly, though not always. My father was one too. We spent a lot of time in the wild. What’s routine for us, most people see as adventure.” She took back the pipe, drew from it, then added, “That’s why I left you alone this morning. All local guides were called to the station. Something’s happening. They might need us.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “One of last night’s charter flights went missing. They think it might have crashed. I don’t know the details yet, but they’ll probably organize a search.”

  The calmness in his face vanished, replaced by a pale unease.

  “Crashed? What do you mean, crashed?”

  Hemingway lifted her hand into the air, palm flat like a plane in flight. With a soft whistle, she dipped it toward the table and smacked it.

  “Boom,” she said. “Like that. Probably clipped a mountaintop or something.”

  He watched her gesture in silence, his face suddenly grave. Seeing his reaction, she grew serious too.

  “Do they know which flight it was?”

  “I think the last one that took off from here, Flight 489. Why?”

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, flattening it on the table. She took it, read the flight number, and looked back at him, puzzled.

  “The flight you missed last night?”

  “Yes.”

  She stared at him, at a man who by all logic shouldn’t be here. Someone fate had spared by the narrowest chance. For a long moment, she said nothing. It was Armand who finally broke the silence.

  Deep in his mind, he knew none of this could be coincidence. The sudden shutdown of the Outpost, the downed flight, it all demanded answers. But where to find them? Of course, he knew where. He just didn’t know how to get there.

  “Listen, Hemingway... I need your help. A guide, to be exact. Through the wilderness. I’d like to hire you.”

  She narrowed her eyes slightly, then shook her head. Something about this felt off. Her instincts, the old guiding sense that warned of trouble, told her to tread carefully.

  “You want to hire me? To go where, exactly? And how do you plan to pay me?”

  He pulled out his wallet, took her hand, and placed it in her palm.

  “Keep it. Everything I have is yours. You’ve seen the card, I’ll give you the number. Don’t worry about payment; you’ll be compensated. As for where... I’m not exactly sure.”

  Hemingway set the wallet on the table, pressing it with a fingertip.

  “You realize how strange that sounds? Your appearance, the flight, now this. You want me to take you somewhere, but you don’t know where? If you want my help, I’ll need a few more details, and a lot more honesty. I’m not getting myself tangled in something I’ll regret.”

  He understood her suspicion. Even he knew how mysterious it all sounded. Yet he was certain of one thing, the answers were there, beneath the mountain. He would have to ask .

  “It’s nothing you’ll regret,” he said quietly. “I just need you to take me to... let’s call it my former workplace. That’s all. The problem is, I don’t know exactly where it is.”

  She studied him.

  “How can you not know where you worked?”

  “They took us there by transporters and brought us back the same way. No windows, and even if there were, I wouldn’t have recognized anything.”

  “And why go back?”

  “There are things I need to finish. Important things. Please, help me.”

  “I remember those transporters,” she said. “When they brought you to the airport. Military rigs, heavy-duty. They can’t go faster than fifteen, twenty miles an hour. How long was the trip?”

  He tried to recall the uncomfortable ride. It had been long, but not endless.

  “Four, maybe five hours. Closer to five.”

  Hemingway went to a shelf and pulled down a rolled-up map. She spread it across the table, pinning the corners with plates and crumbs of bread. Pointing to a small cove, she said,

  “This is us.”

  Then, using an old compass divider, she drew two concentric circles. The zone between them marked the area of Armand’s possible destination.

  “What do you remember about the surroundings? Any landmarks?”

  He searched his memory.

  “The terrain was mostly flat. A single mountain, standing alone, that’s it.”

  She traced the map with her finger. There were several peaks in that range, but only one could be reached by vehicle. That had to be it. She took a pencil and marked a small cross on the mountaintop.

  “This is where you want to go. It’s not close, about eighty miles through the wild. No transport means sleds. A few days, if the weather holds. Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” he said. “Just get me there, drop me off. Take as much money as you want.” His voice softened. “Please.”

  She sensed his fear as much as his resolve. The route was long, the region unknown. She had never gone that far inland. Still, she needed the money. Maybe this was a beginning, a chance. The risk seemed worth it. With enough preparation, the journey could be done.

  “All right, stranger,” she said at last. “If that’s what you want, we leave at dawn. We’ll need to pack tonight.” Seeing the uneasy determination in his eyes, she smiled and patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry. Just do as I say, and we’ll get there in no time.”

  “Thank you,” Armand said softly. “For everything.”