It was on the twenty-seventh day that trouble started.  Jerome was cold and hungry, weak.  Tom and he had talked the days and food away and there was nothing new to say.  The silence put the thought into their heads.  There was no longer hope of rescue and one would likely end up eating the other.

The tundra spread out miles in all directions stark and flat.  At sunset, the flat horizon lumped around the twisted silhouette of Tom’s twin-engine Cessna. Barely shelter from the northern winds that found only that to howl around, the plane had settled into charred black sculpture telling stories to the men in their dreams at night.

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