The Woman Who Stayed

The tent canvas snapped in the wind. Ada sat on an overturned crate, watching Knight's chest rise and fall. Each breath came shallow and ragged.

His gums had started bleeding three days ago. Now purple bruises mottled his arms like storm clouds. He'd insisted he was fine until this morning.

"Ma'am."

His voice barely carried across the two feet between them. Ada hunched forward, her shoulders pulling inward.

"You need to listen."

She fidgeted with her sewing needle. The brass caught the dim kerosene light. Knight's eyes tracked the movement.

"The rifle. You have to learn."

Ada's hands stilled. The needle pressed into her palm hard enough to hurt. She'd sewn torn clothing, mended canvas, stitched wounds. Those were woman's tools.

A rifle was different.

"I can't," she whispered.

Knight's jaw clenched. He tried to sit up and fell back, gasping. The metallic smell of blood mixed with canvas and kerosene.

"You will."

He said it like an order. Like commands still mattered on an island where three men had walked into the ice and never returned.

Ada touched the needle to make sure it was real. Knight watched her with fading intensity.

"Tomorrow. I'll show you."

The next morning, Knight leaned on her shoulder as they stumbled outside. The Arctic wind bit through Ada's parka. Endless white stretched in every direction.

Knight pointed to a piece of driftwood fifty yards away. Ada stared at it and muttered something in Inupiaq.

"What was that, ma'am?"

"Nothing."

She lifted the rifle. The weight pulled at her arms. Her father's voice echoed in her head—women don't hunt, women don't shoot, women sew and cook and raise children.

The rifle barrel wavered. Ada's breath came quick and shallow.

"Steady, ma'am. Breathe."

She pulled the trigger.

The crack split the silence like breaking ice. The recoil slammed into her shoulder and knocked her backward. Ada landed hard in the snow.

Knight stood over her, swaying. Blood seeped from his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

"Again."

Ada's hands shook so badly she could barely grip the stock. The driftwood stood untouched. Knight coughed and more blood came.

"Can we... can we stop?"

"No."

She fired five more times. Missed every shot. Knight's legs buckled and he sat in the snow.

"The traps," he whispered. "I'll show you the traps."

Ada helped him to where he'd cached the fox traps. Knight tried to bend down to demonstrate. He made it halfway before his knees gave out.

"Spring goes here." He pointed with a trembling hand. "Bait there. Cover with snow."

Ada knelt in the ice. Her fingers went numb within seconds. She repeated his words like a prayer, trying to make them stick.

Spring here. Bait there. Cover with snow.

Knight watched her fumble with the trap. His breathing sounded wet. After ten minutes, he touched her shoulder.

"Good enough."

They made it back to the tent. Knight collapsed onto his cot. Ada poured him water from the last canteen. His hands shook too much to hold the cup.

She held it to his lips. Most of the water spilled down his chin.

"Three days," he said. "Maybe four. You have to be ready."

Ada's throat closed. She hunched smaller, pulling her shoulders up like armor. Knight gripped her wrist with surprising strength.

"Ma'am. You have to be ready."

She nodded. Her hands fidgeted with her parka hem.

Knight died on the third day. Ada found him rigid in his cot, eyes open and staring at nothing. She closed them with shaking fingers.

Outside, she found a piece of driftwood. Using Knight's knife, she carved a single line. The wood was frozen hard. It took twenty minutes.

When she finished, she stood alone in the wind. The camp stretched empty around her. The rifle leaned against the tent wall where Knight had left it.

Seven hundred marks to go.

Ada touched the driftwood to make sure it was real.