Isolation Camp Log, Day 1,138

Somewhere above the 45th parallel

First off, I must apologize for the lower standard of my penmanship in this entry, and in future ones, should we survive this interminable winter. I scribble today’s notes without the use of several fingers. Last week, while harnessing our last remaining sled dog, Ruby, I dropped one of my mitts in the snow. By the time I retrieved it, I had lost feeling in my hand and never regained it. Our interim ship’s physician, Doc Flanagan (our previous doctor has gone missing, presumed dead), did his best to rehabilitate my digits, but his remedy of pouring hot seal fat over them proved not only ineffective, but it actually worsened my condition. The blackened fingers were so numb that, by the time I noticed that the hot viscous fluid had scalded them, they were beyond saving. Amputation was the only course of action, and the ship’s carpenter performed the grisly deed with an exceedingly dull fret saw. Patel, the chef, had expressed interest in using this “phalanges confit,” as he called my fat-poached digits, for a special amuse bouche for the men, but by the time he bent to scoop them from the floor, Ruby had swallowed them all.