Every day I shine my light into the dark sea, hoping that someone, anyone will respond. It’s been weeks since I’ve had any contact from the main land, and my ship is no closer to getting afloat. I’ll be out of food tomorrow, despite my rationing.

Returning to the base, I scour the shelves for something that I can use as a beacon. I have a few matches left for cooking, but if I try and spark a fire outdoors, it could blow out and I’d lose my stove. There are a few pieces of metal I think could reflect a light, if a ship came by. I paint the word “HELP” onto them and drag them outside.

There’s not much sunlight here this time of year. The nights drag on for twenty three hours, and the brief glimpse of the sun is low; the days somehow feel colder, as quickly as they pass.

I’ve imagined how they’ll find me a million times, assuming I’m ever found. My glasses will still be perched on my nose, my beard curling outward, and my eyes will be frozen shut. They’ll remark on how I look like I’m asleep, like I could wake at any moment. They’ll tell each other there was no way they could have found me in time, that I was unlucky and unfortunate, that none of them had ever known me, not really.

There are growls I hear sometimes. I don’t know if they’re real. No wolves should be able to survive this far north. There’s no prey for them, and no shelter if there’s a storm.

I know the isolation causes hallucinations, that and the sensory deprivation of the arctic landscape. Still, the sensation that someone, or something is watching me is inescapable. I feel hunted, marked for death, even as I consider starvation and freezing to death.

Is madness taking hold of me?