part two: May 19 - Pine Ridge Research Center
Samantha Jorgensen was on her way back to the mountain and to her remote cabin, where she was conducting observations of the Desert Tawny Owl. The small, sandy-colored raptor had once been known as a desert-dwelling species, but in the last six to eight years, numerous sightings suggested that these little owls had shifted to new habitats in some forested areas.
Many species had perished since the mid to late 2000s due to changing habitats brought about by climate change. The battle to bring all of humanity around to reduce their carbon footprint had almost not happened soon enough to make a difference. The political arena had sparred back and forth—one side agonizingly presenting data set after data set showing the effects of man-made carbon pollution, while carbon-polluting industrialists insisted that humankind was too insignificant to impact an entire planet’s environment. Meanwhile, massive die-off events continued to occur planet-wide, and global warming had increased to nearly irreversible levels.
Finally, citizens across the globe stood together to vote for science-based political groups, who were able to take control of enough government sectors to push through key legislation and shift the world’s energy dependency from fossil fuels to renewables. In 2011 and again in 2020, catastrophic events had shut down worldwide airline travel. The data collected during these shutdowns provided undeniable proof: man-made pollution did affect the planet’s atmosphere. The measurable results demonstrated not only that humankind was capable of polluting the planet—but that we could clean it up. Humans could affect the global climate—for better or worse. This validation drove the world’s science-minded population to push for global change.
Sam had focused her research on habitat alteration and how these changes affected an animal’s ability to survive as global climates began to stabilize. The ability of any species to successfully transition into a new habitat offered a rare opportunity to study the resiliency of that species’ phenotypic plasticity.
The North American polar bear had not successfully adapted to the loss of polar ice packs in the Arctic and was now nearly extinct. A few hybridized polar-grizzly bears still roamed northern Canada, but purebred North American polar bears were nearly gone from the wild. There was ongoing discussion of introducing Siberian polar bears to Canada’s northern coast, now that ice packs were beginning to return as part of the pre-climate change cascade cycle. Zoologists, however, were waiting on updated population counts of the native polar bears before introducing their cousin species, hoping that the few remaining wild and zoo-kept bears could repopulate on their own.
Two years ago, Sam had returned to her alma mater after leading her first successful research project connecting radical species habitat shifts to ongoing global climate fluctuations. That project had placed her in a remote region of Northern Africa, where the Sahara Desert was undergoing environmental changes not seen in tens of thousands of years. With increased seasonal rains, savanna habitat had begun encroaching on what had long been arid desert. Native species were faced with three options: adapt to the new environment, migrate with the retreating desert, or go extinct. Sam’s research supported the growing belief that successful habitat adaptation was, as feared, a very rare occurrence.
The apparent success of the Desert Tawny Owl’s habitat change offered a promising new data point. Not since Darwin’s time had there been so many diverse opportunities to study evolution in action. Rapid climate change had impacted ecosystems worldwide, forcing many species into crisis. A few had managed to mutate in ways that allowed them to adapt—but for every species that evolved, four others went extinct. The Desert Tawny Owl’s key adaptation had been a shift in hunting behavior suited to its new environment.
That morning, Sam had made her monthly trip into Boston to present her findings—first to the head of the biology department at UMass’s Environmental Studies extension, and then to the director of finance for scientific grants at Valtech International Conglomerate. There, she secured an extension of her grant to continue studying the owl’s adaptation.
Her initial proposal, submitted the year before, had landed on the desk of Michael Jones. It had been approved—over dinner. Within a few months and several more dinners, their relationship had escalated.
Sam had always felt uneasy about being romantically involved with the man managing her grant, but technically, he was just a go-between. Still, the relationship hadn’t thrived. Her work kept her in the field, while Mike remained in his office. He continued to pressure her into getting a CIR implant so they could "grow closer." But she’d already tried once—her tissue had rejected the implant, resulting in an infection that nearly killed her.
The truth was, their lifestyles couldn’t have been more different. He thrived in the city’s energy; she needed the solitude of the wilderness.
Sam loved her time in the mountains. She reveled in the quiet—the whisper of wind through fir and spruce, the soft patter of drizzle sliding from leaves and needles. She was happy to be back at her secluded camp for another month of watching the owl family. She rushed to get into her blind on time. She needed to be in place before the owls began their nightly routines so she could document their behaviors.
It had taken months to find a female owl who would tolerate cameras near the nest and raise her fledglings in front of one-way glass. And just as she was settling in for the night, Mike would usually chime in through her earpiece to talk about his day—the office gossip, his strategic moves up the corporate ladder, who said what to whom.
He knew she couldn’t speak during her watch, and he seemed to relish having a captive audience. She’d hoped that if she let him talk himself out, he’d eventually take interest in her work. But he didn’t. Anytime she shifted the conversation to her research, he would brush her off, calling her opinions superficial, and redirect the topic back to himself.
Sam had decided to end it. She’d always found her past relationships with men to be short-lived and draining. Their constant need to be the center of her world left her feeling suffocated. As a quiet, reclusive observer, she suspected her silence was often mistaken for fascination. In truth, she rarely cared what made their world go 'round.
Still, she paused at the thought—was Mike selfish for his constant sharing, or was she selfish for wanting to be left alone?
She finally switched off her Bluetooth. A wave of relief washed over her. She turned her attention back to the owl family, ready for another long night of observation and data collection. She sighed. Tomorrow, she’d end it.
At dawn, Sam stiffly, slowly, and very quietly backed out of the blind. After hours spent cramped in the small space, mornings were always difficult—and the cold didn’t help. Thankfully, it was spring, and the days were warming.
She had to wait until Cleo and Caesar, the parent owls, settled into their daytime routine before making any move. It had taken too long to get this setup just right. This was her fifth attempt at establishing a blind without scaring off her subjects. Most owls hatched their eggs in the order they were laid, with the first being the largest. In this family, Zeus was the biggest, followed by Athena and finally Perseus. She wasn’t sure if the names matched their sexes yet, but she could always revise them later.
Her earpiece hadn’t buzzed that morning—thank goodness. Maybe Mike was pouting over her decision to take space from the relationship. He’d argued that the whole point of a CIR was to enhance their communication. But even their partial link already felt invasive. She couldn’t imagine granting him full access to her thoughts.
Sam wasn’t just used to being alone—she preferred it. Mike couldn’t understand her need for extended quiet. Society had grown ever more dependent on mind-to-mind connections and constant digital stimulation.
But Sam believed in the old adage: you don’t miss what you’ve never had. She wasn’t antisocial—she just found that solitude restored her inner self. Or, as her Nez Perce great-grandmother would’ve said, her inner spirit.
She walked back along the needle-padded trail to the cabin, stopping at the lean-to to feed Jack, her small horse, his morning grain and hay. She rubbed his ear—his favorite spot—checked his water, then went inside to eat, review the night’s data, and finally get some well-earned sleep.
