The Last Mile of the Forgotten

The rasp of Emma's breath filled the quiet hospital. Each inhale struggled past the gray membrane creeping across her throat. Dr. Curtis Welch bent over the small bed, watching the seven-year-old fight for air.

Her mother stood in the doorway. Quarantine rules kept her outside the threshold. Her hands pressed flat against the doorframe.

Welch's fingers found his pocket watch. Seventy-two hours since the first case. He flipped the watch closed without reading it.

His hands moved to the basin. Scrubbed. The skin raw, cracked from the cold and his guilt. The tic wouldn't stop—wash, check the watch, return to Emma's bedside.

At the frost-covered window, he pressed his palm against the ice-rimed glass. West, where rescue would come. If it came. Only wind moved across the empty white.

Two hundred miles away, Leonhard Seppala stood in his kennel. The choice before him would define everything. Officials crowded the doorway behind him.

"The old dog?" one said. "In this?"

Seppala said nothing. He crossed to Togo's stall, boots crunching on frozen straw.

Togo's gray muzzle lifted. Twelve years of brutal runs showed in every scar, every stiff joint. But his ears came forward.

Seppala knelt. His weathered hands moved over Togo's paws, checking each pad with gentle precision. The ritual they'd shared for eleven years.

"Nei," Seppala said to the officials. Not as answer, but dismissal.

He lifted the harness from its peg. The worn leather cracked in his grip. Eleven years of Alaska winters had dried it like his own skin.

Togo watched the harness approach. His joints ached. The cold settled deep in bones that remembered when running came easy. But he straightened.

Lives depended on this.

Seppala settled the harness across Togo's shoulders. The old leather creaked. Togo felt the weight—not heavy, but familiar. Like destiny recognizing an old friend.

The officials muttered behind them. Questioned. Doubted.

Seppala's fingers worked the buckles. Tight enough for safety. Loose enough for breath. The muscle memory of trust.

He placed his palm flat on Togo's head. One second. Two. Then he stood and walked to the sled without looking back.

Togo followed. Lead position. Where he'd always belonged.

The wind howled beyond the kennel doors. January's teeth waited outside. Behind them, the officials fell silent.

Seppala gripped the sled. Togo leaned into the harness.

They departed into white.