On hot summer days, a curious phenomenon takes place within the beehive. When the sun climbs high and its rays strike the hive, the queen begins to overheat, and she does not handle the heat well. So she gives the order to her workers, by pheromone or by some secret means: Cool me! And then, chaos takes over.

  Hundreds of workers rush to the hive’s entrance and begin to fan their wings, creating a flow of air. Others sprinkle fine drops of water over the honeycombs. The rising vapor, carried by the air currents, cools the queen. The entire hive hums with the flutter of tiny wings, like an air conditioner turned to its highest setting.

  That was precisely what the inside of looked like now. Hundreds of workers, soldiers, engineers, scientists, and analysts moved back and forth, each absorbed in their designated task. The steady hum of their activity stirred Armand from his bed. Once again, he had used the night hours to hold another “council,” and the early morning had caught him asleep at his desk. Reaching for his glasses, he placed them crookedly on his nose and grabbed his official tablet. It showed a new message, the red icon pulsing impatiently, as if demanding his reaction. He straightened up, blinked a few times to clear his sight, and tapped the screen.

  He stared at the message in disbelief, shaking his head and even smiling faintly, as if it were some sort of joke. But the sound of hurried footsteps and clattering equipment coming from behind the door quickly shattered that illusion.

  A cold realization ran down his spine.

  What was happening? What would become of his projects? No, these weren’t just projects. They were entities he had come to know, to nurture, to think of as friends. What would happen to them now?

  A loud knock pulled him from his thoughts. Without waiting for a reply, someone swiped an ID card and the door slid open.

  Standing there was the liaison officer for scientific coordination. Armand knew who he was, though they rarely spoke. This time, the encounter was clearly unavoidable.

  “Good morning, Mr. Gideon,” the officer began without pause. “I trust you’ve seen the latest notice and the orders? Judging by your face, I assume you have. My task is to personally brief every member of this sector. Do I have your attention so far?”

  Armand remained motionless, speechless. He hadn’t expected the situation to unfold like this, not so suddenly, not in this way. He felt like a composer watching the pages of his new symphony consumed by flames.

  “Mr. Gideon?”

  “Yes… I got the memo. What’s going on? Why are we leaving the outpost?”

  “I’m not authorized to answer that, sir. Truth be told, I don’t know myself. The order came directly from Command—that’s all I can say. Our duty is to comply. Have you finished packing? Have you returned your equipment?”

  Armand glanced around. The room was exactly as it had been when he came back earlier that morning—everything in its place, or rather, out of place.

  The officer followed his gaze and remarked sharply, “I take it that’s a no. Very well, I’ll give you thirty minutes to get ready. After that, packed or not, military police will escort you to the main hall. Are we clear?”

  Armand only nodded faintly. The officer seemed satisfied, gave a curt smile, turned on his heel, and disappeared into the next room. His sharp knocking was soon muffled as Armand’s door slid shut again.

  His head throbbed; his cheeks burned as if someone had slapped him, first with the left hand, then the right, and again for good measure. He staggered to his feet, swaying as he looked around the room.

  His eyes fell on a photograph on the shelf: himself with his parents, his mother’s gentle smile, his father’s thick mustache. In the middle stood a much younger Armand, barely a boy.

  The sight jolted him into motion. He didn’t want to be escorted through the entire outpost in his pajamas, so he began packing in haste. Half of his allotted time vanished just searching for the damned suitcase.

  He joined the line forming before the wide counter of the supply depot. Around him, colleagues, familiar and not, exchanged puzzled glances and whispered among themselves. No one had expected this. No one had been warned.

  When his turn came, the quartermaster looked up from his tablet.

  “Name?”

  “Armand Gideon, project lead…”

  “Yes, yes… found you.” The man tapped the screen. “Please place all issued equipment on the table for inspection.”

  Armand carefully emptied his bag, one item at a time, while the officer checked them off his list.

  “Do you happen to know what’s going on?” Armand asked quietly. “Is this some kind of temporary evacuation, or what?”

  “I wouldn’t call it temporary,” the quartermaster replied, still typing. “Usually, during safety drills, no one returns their equipment. If you ask me, based on past experience, this looks like a full shutdown. Total evacuation. Even the power plant crew’s been reassigned to the airstrip, and that means one thing: no power, no outpost. Probably another round of budget cuts. But don’t worry. Most of you will likely get reassigned under new contracts. That’s how it goes. I’m sure we’ll meet again, hopefully somewhere warmer. Maybe the next outpost will be in Hawaii, huh? Now that would be something!”

  Armand followed the group being escorted toward the central hall. There, military transports with massive studded tires were waiting. Each vehicle could hold no more than eight passengers, so the process dragged on. One loaded transport disappeared into the tunnel toward the surface, while another, empty and waiting, took its place.

  A military policeman read names from a list.

  “Armand Gideon,” he called, motioning toward a transport with its rear ramp lowered.

  Armand stepped forward. “Do you know where they’re taking us?”

  “You and the rest of the civilian personnel are being transferred to a coastal town,” the man replied. “There’s a local airfield there. You’ll board Flight 489 to the mainland. Further instructions will be provided later. Have a safe trip, sir.”

  Armand nodded, took the ticket, and climbed aboard. He had to duck to fit inside, taking the fourth seat on the left. Once everyone was packed in, they were squeezed together like sardines. Bags, cases, and suitcases piled up before them, nearly reaching the ceiling. Armand could barely make out the passengers across from him.

  The engine roared to life, and with a jolt, the vehicle began to move.

  There were no windows, so he had no idea where they were going. All he knew was that there were no proper roads leading from the outpost, only frozen terrain strewn with rocks. The shaking and jolting soon confirmed it.

  The ride lasted longer than he’d expected. Hours passed in rattling monotony. Several times, his head hit the metal wall behind him. When he was just about to shout to the driver to ask how much longer this torment would last, the vehicle began to slow down, and finally stopped.

  Armand thought.

  *

  The airstrip was hardly what one might imagine. It was merely a strip of packed snow and ice, marked on both sides by a wavering line of light bulbs. Beside it stood a small airport building, just one counter and about thirty chairs in the waiting area, all occupied long before Armand arrived.

  Behind it stretched a snow-covered settlement. is the right word, for it could hardly be called a town or even a village. A handful of crisscrossing streets linked together structures of every imaginable kind: some resembled houses, others were trailers, timber cabins, truck containers, and several large fuel tanks. The whole place hugged the edge of a narrow bay. There was even a tiny marina with moored fishing boats and weathered skiffs. Beyond it, the jagged crown of a mountain range loomed over everything, sharp, naked, and gray.

  Small and mid-sized propeller planes kept landing, picking up passengers, and vanishing southward. After a few hours, the waiting room had almost emptied. The last flight - No. 489 - had just arrived. Armand’s colleagues and the remaining staff, clutching their tickets, moved toward the exit, ready to board.

  Not Armand. His body refused to move. It was as if his very spine had been nailed to the seat. His legs twitched with the impulse to rise, but the mind refused to follow. He felt hollow, like a traitor. Was he really going to just pack up and leave? Abandon them, leave them buried in the darkness of the cave? The thought burned like live fire in his chest. He wasn’t raised to give up so easily. But what could he do now? He had no idea. Maybe he go, after all...

  Stolen novel; please report.

  His hesitation ended with the roar of Flight 489’s engines. The plane turned slowly, rolled down the frozen runway, and disappeared into the dusk, rising toward a sky that was already taking on the deep violet of evening.

  Armand was alone now, sitting in an empty waiting room, holding a useless piece of paper, his boarding pass.

  He slung his backpack over his shoulders and stepped outside. The snow-covered street lay silent and still. In the distance, the mountain peaks merged with a starlit sky. His breath caught in the sharp, salty air that smelled faintly of fish and seaweed. One by one, the streetlights flickered on, their glow trembling in the cold.

  Despite everything, the settlement looked oddly peaceful, almost idyllic. He would need to find a place to stay for the night, somewhere to think. Down the street, he saw a few trucks parked in front of a house. Faint music drifted out from that direction. Maybe there, he thought, someone could tell him where to find a room.

  A wooden sign hung above the entrance:

  He climbed the steps, gripped the handle, and pushed the door open. A small bell jingled.

  He closed the door behind him and looked around.

  It was a sort of local tavern, not exactly tidy, but with everything a tavern needed: a pool table, a dozen tables, a long wooden bar with tall stools, and a backlit shelf filled with bottles. A dusty jukebox played in the corner. The people inside, almost every table was taken, froze when he entered. Conversations paused, and only the jukebox kept going.

  Armand realized he couldn’t just stand there forever, so he walked to the bar. Dropping his backpack onto the floorboards, he pulled up a stool and sat down. Gradually, the voices resumed behind him.

  Soon the bartender approached, an older man with a windburned face, the kind that’s been beaten by sea and salt. His rolled-up sleeves revealed forearms covered with faded tattoos. He planted his hands on the bar and leaned in, studying the newcomer.

  “Evenin’,” he said. “What’ll it be tonight?”

  “Good evening,” Armand replied awkwardly, forcing a smile. “Do you have... any tea?”

  The bartender stared at him as if he’d just sworn in church. His face went from to But then something in his look softened, that faint glimmer of recognition reserved for the harmless kind of oddball. He’d seen people like this before: strangers passing through, staying a night or two before disappearing into the wilderness.

  “All right then,” he said finally, slapping the counter with his palm. “One comin’ up, house special.”

  A few minutes later, a large metal mug full of steaming dark liquid appeared before Armand. The rising vapor smelled of resin, cedar or pine, he couldn’t tell which. The bartender leaned on the bar again, clearly waiting for him to take the first sip.

  Uneasy under the man’s expectant gaze, Armand lifted the mug, blew a few times to cool it, and took a large gulp. The bitterness hit him like a punch. His throat burned, his eyes watered. Through blurred lashes, he managed a forced smile and a nod.

  “Mmm... that’s... good,” he croaked.

  Satisfied, the bartender grinned and moved on to other customers. Armand had the urge to scrape his tongue with his fingers. But then something strange happened. The harsh bitterness flowing down his throat began to shift, turning into warmth. A deep, radiant warmth that spread through his limbs, melting the cold in his bones.

  Grateful for the sensation, he took another gulp. And another. The more he drank, the more he thawed. Soon sweat began to bead on his neck. He unzipped his jacket, loosened his collar. The world started to spin gently, pleasantly. One more sip...

  “You might want to be careful with the ,” said a voice beside him, cutting through his haze.

  Turning his head toward the unexpected voice made the whole bar ripple and tilt slightly. The shelf of bottles seemed to slide one way, then the other, and when it settled, he saw her.

  A face not easily forgotten: high cheekbones, skin with the warm tone of pine honey, and eyes dark and still as deep water, the kind of eyes in which a man first sees himself before realizing he’s being seen.

  Her hair was long, black, and heavy, braided simply with a few loose strands that escaped like they wanted their own freedom. She wore a flannel shirt, a rough wool sweater, and old boots marked with salt. Her hands bore small rope scars and thin white lines, the kind earned outdoors, not behind a desk.

  He stared at her as though she were an apparition, the image too sharp, too vivid. Every detail stood out: the tiny dimple only on her right cheek, the upward curve of her lashes, her slightly chapped lips revealing small, pearl-white teeth just a touch too long in front.

  He wasn’t sure if he was looking at a real person, or something his mind had conjured.

  “Hey,” she said, waving her hand in front of his eyes. “You in there?”

  It jolted him enough to blink at last.

  She glanced at his mug.

  “How much of that did you drink? Was it full when he gave it to you?”

  Armand gave a sluggish nod. She cast a sharp look at the bartender, who only shrugged, polishing a glass with feigned innocence. Turning back to Armand, she said,

  “I’m Anana, though everyone around here calls me Hemingway.”

  She held out her hand.

  He tried to meet it, swaying slightly as though the simple act of reaching out were a complex maneuver. The world around him rippled and shifted.

  “I’m Armand... Gideon. But everyone calls me... Armand,” he said, as if recalling his own name from a long-forgotten dream.

  “Nice to meet you, Armand.” She gripped his hand firmly. “Haven’t seen you around before. You get in today?”

  “Yeah... just got here. I was supposed to fly out, but I missed my plane. No big deal, I’ll catch the next one.”

  Hemingway studied him like one might study a sick puppy, half pity, half curiosity. She hoped he was one of those foolish tourists who came here seeking “the wild” up close. Those were her favorite clients: deep-pocketed thrill-seekers who’d pay her to take them dogsledding across the tundra, hoping to spot a bear or a moose the size of a bus. Easy money.

  But this one was planning to

  “So you’re catching the next flight, huh?”

  “I suppose so. Haven’t really decided yet.”

  “I hate to disappoint you,” she said, “but all the flights today were special runs. Someone chartered them. The next regular flight’s in about ten days, if the weather holds. Otherwise, it could be longer.”

  “Ha! Ten days?” He laughed weakly. “Well, that complicates things a bit. No problem, I’ll just rent a room at a hotel. Could you point me to one?”

  Now he didn’t look like a sick puppy anymore, more like a man destined to freeze to death by morning.

  “Well,” she said, her tone bone-dry, “we’ve got only one place around here. It’s called The Four Seasons. That work for you?”

  “Perfect! Thank you so much.” He smiled foolishly, rocking in his chair.

  “Buddy,” she said flatly, “there’s no hotel in this godforsaken place. Think for a second where you are. And by the way, you got any cash on you? How were you planning to pay for that drink?”

  “Money’s not a problem.” He reached inside his jacket, pulled out his wallet, and slid out a credit card. Her eyes fell on it, She’d seen one before, back down south. She knew exactly what that meant. Quickly, before anyone else could notice, she covered it with her palm.

  “Friendly advice, don’t let anyone see that card. Around here, they’d skin you alive for it. And besides,” she added, “there isn’t a single card reader in this whole damn settlement.”

  Armand’s face paled as the meaning sank in. He slipped the wallet back into his pocket.

  “So... how do I pay for the drink? Or for a place to stay?”

  Hemingway smiled to herself. Maybe luck had decided to visit after all.

  “Here’s what we’ll do,” she said. “I’ll cover your tab and find you a place to stay. You’ll pay me back, with interest. Let’s say... double. How’s that sound? Or would you rather fend for yourself?”

  “Sounds perfect,” he said quickly. “A fair deal.”

  “Good. Then let’s go.”

  She called out to the bartender, paid the bill, and helped Armand to his feet. His backpack seemed far too heavy for him now, so she swung it onto her own shoulder, grabbed him by the arm, and led him outside.

  The night was sharp and merciless, but Armand marveled that he couldn’t feel the cold. His face tingled from the air, yet his limbs burned with heat. Slipping and staggering over patches of ice, he let her guide him to a red pickup truck. She tossed his pack into the bed, nudged him into the passenger seat, and started the engine.

  They didn’t drive long. Armand realized they were leaving the settlement behind, following a winding road toward the mountains. A few minutes later, Hemingway pulled up in front of a lonely cabin.

  She helped him out and led him along a narrow path beside a line of dog cages. The huskies burst into a storm of barking the moment they caught her scent. She shouted something back, a few sharp words in a language Armand didn’t recognize, and the noise subsided. Then they entered the cabin.

  The interior of Hemingway’s cabin felt like a museum of winter, every object carried the mark of a struggle with nature, and a quiet beauty born of endurance.

  The moment they entered, Armand was struck by the thick scent of dry wood, smoke, and sea salt. The walls were paneled in dark pine, hung with leather satchels, wolf pelts, and a few faded photographs, men in parkas, women with braids, snow up to their waists. Beneath the window, on a low shelf, stood glass jars filled with dried herbs, roots, and powders the color of ash.

  At the center of the room stood a cast-iron stove. Its glass eye pulsed with orange embers, and on its top simmered an enamel pot releasing a faint, sharp aroma of tundra tea, pungent, almost medicinal. The warmth of the fire cast moving shadows along the walls, and it seemed as if everything in the room swayed gently in rhythm with the breathing of that heat.

  On one side of the room stood a shelf lined with books and hunting gear. On the other, a rough wooden table covered with maps, compasses, and metal tins for wilderness survival. Above the table hung a hunting rifle, and beside it, a hand-carved wooden cross and a dried fish head, a charm for luck.

  She led him into a small room and sat him down on the bed. He tried to keep his thoughts together, but his gaze drifted, catching the shimmer of firelight on metal boxes, on fur stretched across the wall, and finally on Hemingway’s face as she came closer. Her movement was quiet, almost ritualistic.

  She took off his jacket, pulled off his boots, then spread a heavy reindeer hide over him.

  “Sleep,” she whispered, her voice more like the wind’s murmur than a word. “The night here swallows thoughts quickly.”

  Through half-closed lids, Armand saw her silhouette as she bent to set down his pack. The firelight touched her face, revealing the faint freckles on her cheeks and the steady resolve of a woman who knew snow as if it were her own skin.

  Outside, the dogs howled. Somewhere far off, the frozen sea roared, as if the world itself were shattering to pieces.

  The heat from the stove and the weight of the fur wrapped around him like a childhood dream, a safety he had never known he missed. The Labrador tea pulsed through his veins, as if his blood were flowing slower, calmer.

  The sounds grew distant. He tried once more to open his eyes, but everything was already sinking into softness. The fire became a star, Hemingway a shadow beside it, and the world faded beneath the fur and the air that smelled of ice and smoke.

  Armand sank without resistance, like a man who, for the first time in his life, feels no need to understand where he is.