Ikaajik looked out to sea, fixing his gaze on the icebergs in the fjord, and then pushed himself to his feet with a sigh. He ducked into the cabin to grab a large pot from the stove, and then, on a whim, slung his father’s rifle across his chest. He tucked a box of bullets into his pocket and walked out of the cabin, down the track, and all the way to the beach. Ikaajik collected lumps of brash ice from the gentle surf, brushing up and along the beach until the pan was full. He put the pan down on a boulder, taking care to make sure it would not slip, or even catch a wave and be dragged out to sea if an iceberg calved. Ikaajik took another walk along the beach, pocketing small sticks that might be used as kindling, and stooping to pop a small round piece of ice from the sea into his mouth. Ikaajik sucked the salt from the surface, and then smiled as the ice slowly melted upon his tongue.
from Glacier Beat