Cold Soak

The propane regulator is frozen, the bank account is empty, and Leo is thinking about signing a contract that might get him killed. It’s -35 in the bush.

The axe head bounced off the frozen birch log with a dull *clunk*. It didn't split. It just vibrated, sending a shockwave up the hickory handle and into the bones of my wrists. I swore, breath puffing out in a frantic white cloud that vanished instantly against the grey canvas of the tent.

My thumb was numb. Not the whole hand yet, just the thumb inside the glove. The leather was stiff, frozen into a permanent grip shape. It was twenty minutes past three in the afternoon, but the light was already dying, bleeding out into that flat, oppressive blue you only get in Northwestern Ontario in January. The shadows of the jack pines stretched across the snow like bruises.

I swung again. Harder this time. The wood cracked, a sharp pistol-shot sound that echoed off the frozen lake behind me. Finally. One piece of fuel.

Tia was inside the tent. I could hear her wrestling with the cot legs. Metal screeching on metal. She wasn't happy. We'd been out here three hours, and we were still fighting the setup. The plan was a 'reset weekend.' Just us, the Skandic, and the silence. But silence out here is heavy. It presses on your eardrums until you start hearing the blood rushing in your own head.

I stacked the wood. My knee clicked when I straightened up. That old cartilage tear from Wainwright three years ago. It always flared up when the barometer dropped. I rubbed the joint through the layers of Gore-Tex and fleece, staring at the lake. It was a flat white sheet, featureless except for the wind-sculpted drifts that looked like frozen waves.

Inside the tent, the zipper hissed. Tia stuck her head out. She was wearing that orange toque I bought her at the Husky station in Dryden. Her breath steamed around her face.

"Regulator's frozen," she said. Flat tone. No emotion. Just a sitrep.

I looked at the woodpile. Then at the propane tank sitting in the snow. "I told you not to leave it on the sled deck."

"I didn't leave it. You packed the sled, Leo."

She was right. I packed the sled. I always packed the sled. Load plan. First in, last out. I’d visualized it while I was drinking coffee in the kitchen this morning, but maybe I missed the tank. Cognitive drift. That's what the counselor called it. I called it being a screw-up.

"I'll fix it," I said, walking over. The snow crunched—actually, it squeaked. That high-pitched Styrofoam squeak that means it's cold enough to kill your truck battery.

I crouched by the tank. The brass fitting was frosted over white. I pulled my glove off, shoving it under my armpit to keep the heat, and grabbed the brass with my bare hand. The cold bit immediately. Like grabbing a live wire. My skin stuck for a split second before the heat transfer broke the frost.

Tia watched me. She didn't offer to help. She knew better. When I got like this—task-focused, rigid—getting involved just made me snap. I breathed on the regulator, the warm air condensing instantly. A few twists. It was seized.

"Use the pliers," she said.

"I don't need the pliers."

"You're going to strip the thread."

"I'm not going to strip the damn thread, Tia."

I twisted. My hand slipped. Knuckles raked across the jagged edge of the tank collar. Skin tore. Blood welled up, bright red and startling against the dirty white snow, but I didn't feel it yet. The cold is a good anesthetic.

"Leo," she said. Softer this time.

"I got it." I grabbed the Leatherman from my belt, unfolded the pliers with shaking fingers, and wrenched the fitting. It gave with a screech. Gas hissed. I connected the line to the heater inside the tent and cranked the valve. The pilot light clicked, clicked, clicked. Then a *woof* of blue flame.

I sat back in the snow, shoving my bleeding hand back into the glove. The stinging started now. A throb matching my heartbeat.

Tia didn't go back inside. She stood there, arms crossed over her puffy coat. She was looking at me like I was a puzzle with pieces missing.

"Your phone buzzed," she said.

My stomach dropped. Not from the cold. "Yeah?"

"It was on the crate. I moved it so it wouldn't freeze." She paused. A long pause. The wind rattled the tops of the spruce trees. "Notification came up. 'GardaWorld Recruitment'."

I stood up, brushing snow off my knees. I didn't look at her. I looked at the lake. "Just spam."

"It wasn't spam, Leo. It was a contract offer. Subject line said 'Tier 2 Static Security - Erbil'."

I didn't say anything. I picked up the wood I'd split and walked past her into the tent. The heat was already building near the ceiling, but the floor was still an icebox. I dropped the wood by the stove—we were using the propane for now, wood for the night—and sat on the cot. The canvas walls were translucent, glowing with the dying daylight outside.

She followed me in. It was tight in there. Eight by ten. Nowhere to go. She zipped the door shut, cutting off the wind. The silence rushed back in, louder than before.

"You said you were done," she said. She sat on the cooler opposite me. She looked tired. Her eyes had those dark circles she got when she was working doubles at the clinic.

"It's just an inquiry," I lied. It wasn't. I'd sent my CV three weeks ago. I'd updated my certs. I'd even checked the expiration on my passport.

"Erbil is Iraq, Leo."

"It's Kurdistan. It's stable. It's safer than downtown Winnipeg on a Friday."

"Don't give me the briefing. I don't want the briefing." She pulled off her toque, static lifting her dark hair. "We talked about this. You said you were going to finish the electrical ticket. You said you were staying."

"The apprenticeship pays eighteen bucks an hour, Tia. Eighteen. I made more than that ten years ago."

"We're doing fine."

"We're not doing fine. The truck needs a transmission. The roof on the shack is leaking. Grocery bill is up forty percent. I'm putting groceries on a credit card." I leaned forward, elbows on knees. My hand was throbbing inside the glove. I needed to look at the cut, but I didn't want to show her. "This contract is six months. Six months and I clear eighty grand. Tax-free if I stay out of country long enough. That pays off the truck, fixes the roof, and clears the cards."

"And what's the cost?" She looked at me, really looked at me. Her eyes were dark, almost black. "You come back and you don't sleep for another year? You start checking the perimeter of the grocery store again?"

"I'm fine."

"You just almost broke your hand fighting a propane tank because you forgot to pack it right. You're vibrating, Leo. I can feel it from here."

"I'm cold. That's shivering."

"It's not the cold." She stood up, hunching over because the roof was low. She started unrolling her sleeping bag. Aggressive movements. snapping the buckles. "You want to go because you're bored. You miss it. You miss being important."

That hit. It hit hard. I stood up too, but there was nowhere to pace. I took two steps and hit the canvas. "It's not about being important. It's about being competent. Out here... I'm just a guy failing to fix a transmission. I'm a guy who can't pay for the dentist. Over there, I know what I am. I have a function."

"You have a function here!" Her voice cracked. She stopped unrolling the bag. "You're my partner. You're supposed to be building a life with me. Not pausing it every two years to go play soldier in the desert."

"It's not playing soldier. It's work. It's the only work I'm actually good at."

"Then learn something else!" She shouted it. The sound died instantly against the heavy canvas. "You're thirty-four years old. Your knees are shot. Your back is messed up. You can't do this forever. What happens when you're forty? When you're fifty?"

"I'll worry about that then."

"I'm worrying about it now!" She sat back down heavily on the cooler. She put her face in her hands. "I can't do the waiting again, Leo. I can't do the nights where I don't know if you're dead or just out of range. I did it for three tours. I'm done."

The heater hummed. A steady, monotonous drone. The light outside was gone now. It was pitch black. The only light was the blue glow of the propane flame and the little battery lantern hanging from the ridge pole.

I took my glove off. The blood had dried tacky and dark across my knuckles. I looked at it. A jagged line. Dumb. Amateur mistake.

"It's six months," I said quietly. "Just one rotation. Set us up for good."

She didn't look up. Her voice was muffled by her hands. "It's never just one. It's the money, then it's the guys, then it's the feeling. It's an addiction, Leo. You're chasing the high."

"I'm chasing solvency."

"We have food. We have heat. We have a roof. That's solvency. You want excess. And you're willing to trade yourself for it."

I didn't have an answer for that. Because she was partly right. I looked at the rifle case in the corner. My Tikka .308. I brought it for wolves, but really I just liked having it. I liked the weight of it. The mechanical simplicity. Bolt goes up, bolt goes back. Problem solved.

Life here wasn't simple. It was forms and bills and waiting in line and polite conversation about the weather with people who had no idea what the weather could actually do to a human body. It was suffocating.

"I haven't signed it yet," I said.

She looked up. Her eyes were dry now. Resigned. That was worse than the shouting. "But you're going to."

"I don't know."

"You are. I can see it. You're already gone. You're just waiting for the flight manifest."

She stood up and moved past me to the stove. She started unpacking the food bin. tin cans. Spam. bannock she'd made yesterday. "I'm making dinner. Don't help. Just... sit there."

I sat on the cot. The tension in the tent was thicker than the cold. I watched her hands move. Efficient. practiced. She cut the Spam into perfect cubes. She didn't look at me.

I wanted to explain. I wanted to tell her about the shame of standing at the checkout counter and hoping the card didn't decline. About the feeling of being a rusted-out tool in a shiny new workshop. But the words felt heavy, stupid. They wouldn't bridge the gap.

My phone buzzed again. I didn't check it. I knew what it was. The follow-up email. *Please confirm availability for pre-deployment processing.*

I stared at the black screen. The battery was at 12%. Cold was draining it fast. It would be dead by morning.

"Pass me the water," Tia said.

I reached for the jug. The water inside was slushy. I handed it to her. Our fingers brushed. Hers were warm. Mine were ice.

"You need to clean that cut," she said, not looking at my face. She pointed at my hand with the knife.

"It's fine."

"Infection sets in fast out here. Don't be an idiot."

She tossed me the first aid kit. The red nylon pouch hit my chest. I caught it. I opened it up—smell of iodine and adhesive. I dabbed the antiseptic on the cut. It burned. A clean, sharp pain. Better than the dull ache in my chest.

We ate in silence. The Spam was salty, hot. The bannock was dense. Outside, the wind had picked up. It was howling now, slapping the canvas against the frame. The world shrinking down to this little bubble of blue light and tension.

"If you go," she said, staring at her plate. "I might not be here when you get back."

I stopped chewing. The food turned to ash in my mouth. "Tia."

"I mean it. I'm not a pause button you can press. I'm thirty-two. I want kids. I want a partner who is physically present. If you go to Erbil... you're choosing that life over this one."

"I'm doing it for this one."

"No. You're doing it for you. Be honest. Just once."

I swallowed. It was hard. "Maybe," I whispered. "Maybe I am."

She nodded slowly. Like she'd known all along. She set her plate down on the floor. "Well. At least that's the truth."

She climbed into her sleeping bag, zipping it all the way up to her chin, turning her back to me. "Put more wood in the stove before you sleep. It's going to drop to forty below tonight."

"Yeah."

I sat there for a long time. The propane heater hissed. The wind screamed. I looked at my phone. 10%. I could delete the email. I could email them back right now and say no. I thumbed the screen. The light was harsh in the dark tent.

I hovered over the 'Reply' button. My thumb hovered. The scar tissue on my knuckle was white.

I turned the screen off. I didn't delete it. I put the phone in my pocket, against my thigh, to keep the battery alive.

I got up and fed a birch log into the stove. The fire caught, crackling. I watched the flames for a minute, then turned off the lantern. Darkness took the tent, except for the orange glow from the stove vent.

I crawled into my bag on the other cot. The canvas walls shuddered in the wind. It was going to be a long, cold night.