I ran a finger through the frost-laced dust, tracing slowly.
If I remembered right, the Alaskan Range curved like a bent spine, long, sweeping west to east. But it wasn't just a wall of mountains. It had shape. Rhythm.
I started with Denali.
Topmost. Tallest. Always marked like a crown.
Then a long stretch down the spine, jagged with peaks. Foraker came next, southwest, a little lower, but still dominant. Then Hunter. Smaller. East of Denali. Closer to the centerline of the range.
After that, the names blurred. Hayes. Deborah. Moffit. Lesser peaks.
Didn't matter. The big three were enough.
Denali, Foraker, Hunter.
I angled the range slightly. I remembered from class that it wasn't straight. It bowed, hooked south near the middle, then curled northeast.
A rough arc. Like a half-drawn scythe.
The kind of terrain that swallows signals and screws with satellites even without void warps.
