The road north was a gray ribbon through a world of white and black. Trees stood like frozen skeletons. The sky hung low, a dirty sheet threatening more snow. The heater in the Volvo was broken, so we drove with gloves on, our breath pluming inside the cab.
We drove for hours in silence. Not the comfortable kind. The heavy kind, where every man is stuck in his own head.
Kenji finally spoke around midday, when we passed a faded sign for some town with a name I couldn’t pronounce. “We need real gear. What we have is for Finnish winter. Not Arctic winter. It’ll get us killed.”
He was right. Our stuff was scavenged—mismatched jackets, boots that were just waterproofed leather. Svalbard would eat us alive.
“There’s a place,” Borealis said from the back. His voice was clearer now, but thin.
