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The horizon was a seamless blur of white,

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where the frozen earth met a sky the

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color

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of crushed pearls.

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Finnegan, an arctic fox, stood motionless amidst the

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vast, undulating drifts of the

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tundra.

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His coat was a masterpiece of nature, a

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dense, silken camouflage that rendered him nearly

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invisible against the swirling landscape.

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To any observer, he was nothing more than

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a trick of the light, a subtle shadow

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in a

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world of blinding brilliance.

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His ears, sharp and finely tufted, pivoted like

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twin radar dishes.

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He caught the faint, rhythmic thrum of movement

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beneath three feet of hard -packed snow.

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A lemming, hidden deep within its subnivean tunnel,

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was scurrying toward a patch of dried

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tundra grass.

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Finnegan didn't rush.

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He held his breath, his dark, intelligent eyes

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tracking the vibration through his sensitive

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paw pads.

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The cold was a physical weight, biting at

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his nose, but he leaned into it with

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a predator's

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quiet resolve.

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With a sudden, calculated burst of energy, he

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launched himself.

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He hung in the air for a heartbeat,

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his white fur fanned out against the pale

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winter sky,

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before plunging headfirst into the powder.

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He emerged a moment later with a sharp

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shake of his head, sending a spray of

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crystalline

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snow cascading into the air.

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He had missed his mark this time, but

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the tundra was patient, and so was he.

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With a quick trot, he turned his back

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on the gale and slipped silently toward the

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shelter

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of a ridge, a ghost of the north

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melting away into the endless, beautiful winter.