A cold wind whistles through cracks in the stone walls, warring against the warmth radiating from red-hot embers in the fireplace. I hold a cup of tea in my hands, listening intently as the sherpa describes the way. A lump forms in my throat as I realize that this may be the last person I ever talk to: an impoverished Nepalese man wrapped in wolfskin and rags with a mouth nearly devoid of teeth.

“And beware the wolves, girl. They hunt you. They hunt well. They not going to give up.”

With that, the man gets up and leaves me alone in the shack. I watch him leave, his calloused feet making small imprints in the dirt floor as he hobbles out of the structure and into the growing light. As the first rays of dawn creep through the doorframe, I begin to pack up my belongings, making sure to make a mental note of each item. MREs. Water bottles. Sleeping bag. Tarp. 1-person tent. Ice pick. Compass. A map, with notes from the old sherpa scribbled in the margins. Long johns. First-aid kit. Bullets. With my pack ready, I sit down on the dirt and pour myself one last cup of tea. I retrieve a small photo from my pocket for the hundredth time, studying the face of the man I am looking for. I pause and take a sip of tea, the warm liquid making its way soothingly down my throat, warming me up from the inside. After a minute, I return the old picture to my pocket and prepare to depart. I’m gonna miss this place—life is simple, and threats are minimal—but I know I have to leave. I know I’ve already overstayed my welcome. I set down the empty cup and spread out the embers, and grab my boots. Once they are laced up, I strap a holstered Glock 45 to my left leg, and a sheathed survival knife in to my right. I pull my parka on over my sweater and zip it up over my stomach and breasts, all the way up to my chin. Hoisting my bag onto my back, I make my way out of the shack for the last time. As I walk away and into the mountains, I take a look back and pause. A few weak columns of smoke rise out of the tiny settlement as villagers begin their days. Shacks and makeshift tents sprawl aimlessly around a central firepit where the elders gather. The children who are awake stand at the edge of the village, watching me go, emotionlessly. I turn my back on the camp, and I don’t look back again.

- - -

With the sun below the jagged peaks and the light succumbing to the dark, I can see the outlines of wolves as the pack makes its way along the cliff above me. Their eyes shine a faint, fluorescent green as they pace, staring down at me. It’s only been two days, and they’ve already found me. The sherpa was right. Doing my best to ignore them, I continue along the base of the cliff, searching for a place to stop for the night. Coming across a small indent in the rock, I decide to set up my camp. I quickly pitch my tent and bring everything inside. I scarf down an MRE and chug some water, making sure to ration my supplies. I let my hair down around my shoulders and crawl into my sleeping bag. Shivering from the cold, I fall into a light and restless sleep, periodically interrupted by the howling of wolves on the ridge above me.

- - -

I awake as the sun begins to peek over the mountains, illuminating the inside of the tent. I hear a faint rustling outside. Paranoid, I sit up and try to peer through the fabric, but I can’t really see through it. I reach over and grab my gun, preparing to go outside. I unzip the tent and two juvenile wolves turn to face me. Their slate-gray fur is coated in frost, and steam rises from their glistening black snouts. I raise my gun and fire twice at the first wolf. The first bullet enters its flank, high up on its back, shattering its vertebrae and tearing through its lungs. Before the creature can react, the second bullet strikes it in the head, pulverizing its skull and ripping straight through its brain, sending a gruesome spray of blood, bone, and grey matter across the snow. The second wolf turns towards me, its muscles rippling in preparation for an attack, but I quickly fire another shot which enters the wolf’s front and lodges itself somewhere in its torso. Whimpering, it collapses into the snow, panting heavily, as blood begins to ooze out of the wound and froth from its mouth. I grab my knife and cautiously approach the beast, and in one swift movement I cut the serrated blade through the wolf’s throat, ripping its neck wide open to free warm, red blood from its arteries. It barely suffers. I quickly return to my tent and pack it up, heading out before the corpses have the chance to cool. I’m over halfway to the location the sherpa gave me, but I don’t know what I’ll even find there. I consider heading back to the village, but I doubt I’ll be able to make it now. Referencing my compass, I continue my journey into the mountains, towards my goal.

- - -

As I make my way over a large glacier I look around myself to admire the scenery. The sun shines bright and pure through a hole in the clouds, illuminating the ice beneath me and the Himalayas all around. I can see golden eagles weaving in between summits, and, miraculously, I spot a snow leopard in the distance pacing through the snow. I think I can see my destination now. Ahead of me, in the distance, I can see a faint column of smoke rising out of a mountain, and what appears to be a blue banner draped across a black cliff. At the pace I’m going I know I won’t be able to reach it until tomorrow, but finally seeing what lies ahead gives me hope. Finally, I’ll be out of the cold. Finally, I’ll get some answers. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll finally find my father.
I’m torn away from my blissful daydreams by a deep, guttural growl. I turn to confront the pack, quickly counting nine Tibetan wolves. The one in the middle—who appears to be their leader—has dark, crimson blood stained into the fur around her mouth from past victims. Seamlessly, the wolves fan out in a semicircle around me, and I suddenly realize that I have been cornered; less than ten feet behind me is a steep slope, at least forty feet down off of the glacier to the rocks and snow below. Turning back to confront the wolves, I draw my gun with my left hand and my knife with my right. I could probably sled down the slope behind me on my pack, buying myself time away from these beasts, but what would I gain? I’d be another day away from the monastery and no farther from the wolves. My only is to fight my way out, or die trying. I point my pistol to the wolf on the far right, in the direction of the monastery, and fire a single shot directly into its head, killing it instantly. The leader bows its head aggressively, baring her teeth in a deep snarl before lunging forward, along with two of the smaller wolves. Eager to prove their worth, a smaller wolf gets ahead of itself and, seeing my chance, I intercept its attack with my blade, forcing the sharpened metal into the top of its neck and down, severing the spinal cord and paralyzing the poor creature. Before I can end the wolf’s misery, the large she-wolf tackles me, sending us both sprawling to the snow. She snaps at my neck, going for the kill, but I instinctively duck my head to protect my arteries with my chin. Her powerful fangs sink into my face, penetrating through skin and muscle and digging into my jawbone. I roar in pain, clenching my teeth together uncontrollably. Another wolf grabs a hold of my right arm and begins to tear its way through my clothes towards the toned muscle beneath. Frantic, I bring my left hand up and jam the end of my gun into the side of the she-wolf’s head. Her jaw loosens slightly and her eyes widen as she stares into my soul. Holding eye contact with her, I pull the trigger, and time seems to slow as the side of her head explodes outward, releasing blood and brain alike from their natural enclosures. I quickly push her body off of me, my parka already stained red. I look over in time to watch the juvenile on my right rip its head back, taking with it most of my bicep, tearing the muscle free from the bone and taking skin and tendons with it. The pain is nauseating, and my arm is rendered completely useless. Fighting to stay conscious, I swing my gun around and fire three shots into the beast. The first passes through its front right paw, collapsing the bone. The second grazes its cheek and buries itself brutally in its shoulder. The shot tears through its ear, leaving it attacked merely by a thread. Incapacitated, the wolf stumbles back and keels over in the snow. Three wolves lie dead alongside their leader, assassinated brutally in front of the rest of the pack. The five remaining wolves slowly retreat, peeling away one by one and vanishing into the snow. I look over at my arm and notice the snow around it is quickly turning red. Despite my best efforts, my vision starts to tunnel. I try to sit up, but crumple back into the snow as I lose my feeble grip on consciousness.

- - -

Someone is patting my cheek. My head lolls to one side. Everything is cold. I can’t feel my arms or legs. I sense people around me. I hear the word “cauterize” in a thickly accented voice. I hear a sizzling sound a few feet away, followed by the blood-curdling whimper of a wolf. As I crack my eyes I watch a red-hot iron meet my arm, and before my lethargic brain can comprehend excruciating pain, I once again succumb to the darkness.

The next time I gain consciousness, I’m being dragged. I can hear the rustle of my pack to one side. I feel breath on my face and realize one of the wolves is on my other side, being dragged too. We hit a bump in the snow, and I fade back into nothing.

I crack my eyes to see a dimly lit chamber. Hushed voices ramble over me as monks observe my barely-clothed body. My feet and legs are a strange blueish purple, and the horrible gash on my arm is black and yellow with the early stages of infection. I still can’t feel anything. I watch, feeling almost detached from reality, as a monk dips a small cloth in a bowl of clear liquid and begins to rub the wound. This time, I stick around for the pain, crying out in raw, primordial agony as waves of pain suddenly wash over my body. I can’t hold on long before I’m shaken from the real world yet again.

- - -

My head flies up off of my pillow and I find myself sitting upright in a bed. Two torches burn on either side of an ancient wooden door, their light dancing off the uneven stone walls and bearskin rug on the floor. I wiggle my toes, the sheets of the bed responding to their movement to inform me of their functionality. I look over at my right arm and my breath catches in my throat. My arm is gone, amputated just below the shoulder. A strange yet beautiful prosthetic has seamlessly taken its place, a beautiful glossy-black limb seemingly made of pure obsidian. I test out my “fingers,” and it feels surprisingly natural. I pull my legs out of the bed only to notice they are gone, too. My right foot has been amputated at the ankle, and my left leg has been amputated a few inches below the knee. Each has also been replaced by glossy obsidian prosthetics. I fight against a wave of nausea that rolls over me at the sight of my missing limbs. Clothed in a simple, white gown, I don a pair of slippers and proceed out of my quarters into a large chamber where a group of monks sit in a circle with their heads bowed. As I enter the room, I notice a wolf sleeping just outside the door and I jump back, startled. It raises its head calmly and looks at me obediently, and I notice something strange. It, too, has prosthetics. Obsidian has replaced its right front leg, from shoulder to paw, and one of its ears. A chunk of flesh is also missing from its jowel. As I cautiously move past it and towards the monks, the wolf gets up and walks up next to me, following me like a loyal guard dog. Approaching the circle, I politely clear my throat. The monks turn to me, each of them hooded with plain brown robes. One monk, off to the left, reaches up and pulls off his hood, revealing warm green eyes and a familiar smile.

“Hello, Lin,” my father says to me in a gruff yet friendly voice. “It’s been far too long.”