You used to dream about wolves when you were a child.

In your sleep, there would be a pack running through a forest – an evergreen forest, with snow carpeting the ground in a lacework of patterns. They were always running, and sometimes you could almost join in – run until you could feel the wind in your hair, the chill in your lungs, the fierce joy in simple existence.

Run, until the world dropped away, and you were flying – best rush ever, almost beating the fighter planes you'd fly one day.

Until it all fell apart.

You grew to love Antarctica, not for the solitude it provided, but for the snow. Vast and untouched, the likes of which you had only ever seen in your dreams.

These days, there is little time to sleep. But that's okay.

When you look into the mirror, you see a wolf's eyes.