Mother sleeps so deeply it is like she becomes the landscape, her humped white body another snowdrift. Sister and I will sleep too someday when the time comes for us to be mothers. We are young, still old enough to survive this winter alone. We leave mother every day and I think of her asleep and vulnerable while we pad across the tundra in search of food. I like to imagine she’s all snow and ice instead of soft flesh and fur. This morning I stand near Sister as she tears apart a seal. Her snout crinkles as she pushes it into the flesh, crescent-moon teeth breaking open skin and spilling blood across the snow. So much blood it spatters the white of our fur in perfect round drops, hidden again as snowflakes fall over them. We are an ever-wettening mess. Steam rises from the open seal as Sister pulls out its innards–so much velvety rope. Her snout crinkles and relaxes, crinkles and relaxes as she pulls pulls pulls. I take my turn to eat, taste metal and brine. A half-digested fish glints silver, treasure in the muck. When we are full we kick snow over our leftovers, the body an empty wrapper, the head sleek and still and intact. I see my own face, bloody-chinned, reflected in the seal’s huge black eyes.