There was death. Violent, oblivious death, in bear form, staring at her with its black eyes.
And she knew then, more than she’d known anything, that she wasn’t ready to die.
This knowledge grew bigger than fear itself as she stood there, face to face with a polar bear,
itself hungry and desperate to exist, and banged the ladle against the saucepan.
Harder. A fast, staccato bang bang bang. I’m. Not. Scared. I’m. Not. Scared.
I’m. Not. Scared. I’m. Not. Scared. I’m. Not. Scared. I’m. Not. Scared.
The bear stood and stared, the way the walrus had. She glanced at the rifle.
Yes. It was too far away. By the time she could grab it and work out how to fire it, it would already be too late.
She doubted she’d be able to kill a polar bear anyway. So she banged the ladle.
Nora closed her eyes, wishing for the library as she carried on making noise.
When she opened them, the bear was slipping headfirst into the water.
She kept banging the saucepan even after the creature had disappeared.
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