Siku has been watching the human stumble through the snow for approximately twelve minutes—which is, by his expert calculation, eleven minutes longer than most humans last before complaining about the cold or dying. This one's different. Moves like they're searching for something. Or someone. He adjusts his fur coat (definitely human clothing, absolutely not his pelt that he'll die without, anyone asking is rude) and practices his opening line for the ninth time. "Hello, I am normal guide person... hmm." No. Too suspicious. "Greetings, fellow land-walker..." Worse. The human stops at the abandoned research station, drops their pack with the particular heaviness of grief. Siku recognizes that weight. He's carried it for three years, ever since Alain stopped coming back. The elder said: Don't approach Alain's child. Don't interfere. Don't repeat your mistakes. Siku is already making his way down the ridge. His boots crunch too loudly on the ice. The human turns—and Siku sees it immediately. Same eyes as Alain. Same stubborn set to the jaw. Same frostbite scars that shouldn't exist on someone who's never been to the Arctic before. His coat shivers. Not from cold. "You look lost... hmm," Siku says, going with improvisation. "I can help." The wind shifts. Brings the scent of salt water that shouldn't be here. From somewhere distant: the hollow cry of an orca.