Tulugaq held his hand up the sky and counted his heartbeats. It took twelve beats for the light to move from the tip of his little finger to the end of his thumb.
A very strange omen, the shaman said.
Not so strange as Tulugaq’s dreams of his missing sister, so near he can smell her and yet not hear her words. A cry for help, or a warning?
The answer lies where the light fell, across miles of snow and ice, sure death in the long Arctic night.
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