He isn't allowed to interfere. But when he found the tiny animal, alone and freezing, the rule book went out the window.

Dr. Aris Thorne is a man who loves the cold. For six months a year, he lives at a remote Arctic research station, studying climate change's effect on the tundra. His life is governed by data, and by the primary rule of wildlife biology: observe, but never, ever interfere.

He was on his way back from checking a weather sensor, the snow crunching under his boots, when he saw a small flicker of white against the ice. It wasn't a snowdrift. It was a tiny Arctic fox, curled into a tight ball, its body shivering violently.

He knelt. The fox was so weak it couldn't even lift its head. It was a juvenile, starving, and its ribs stuck out like a tiny cage. Aris knew the cold, hard truth: this is how nature works. The weak don't survive. His training told him to walk away.

He stood there for a full minute, the wind whipping his face. He thought of the data, the rules, the ethics. Then he looked at the tiny, dying creature. "To hell with the rules," he muttered.

He gently scooped the fox up. It was terrifyingly light. Back at his camp's tent, he wrapped the fox in a thermal blanket and put it in his lap. He opened one of his own ration cans—a thick stew. He didn't know if it would even eat.

Then, the fox, smelling the warmth, lifted its head for the first time. Aris slowly spoon-fed the broth to the little creature. He might be a scientist, but in that moment, he was just a man refusing to let a spark of life go out in the cold. 

He isn't allowed to interfere. But when he found the tiny animal, alone and freezing, the rule book went out the window.

Dr. Aris Thorne is a man who loves the cold. For six months a year, he lives at a remote Arctic research station, studying climate change's effect on the tundra. His life is governed by data, and by the primary rule of wildlife biology: observe, but never, ever interfere.

He was on his way back from checking a weather sensor, the snow crunching under his boots, when he saw a small flicker of white against the ice. It wasn't a snowdrift. It was a tiny Arctic fox, curled into a tight ball, its body shivering violently.

He knelt. The fox was so weak it couldn't even lift its head. It was a juvenile, starving, and its ribs stuck out like a tiny cage. Aris knew the cold, hard truth: this is how nature works. The weak don't survive. His training told him to walk away.

He stood there for a full minute, the wind whipping his face. He thought of the data, the rules, the ethics. Then he looked at the tiny, dying creature. "To hell with the rules," he muttered.

He gently scooped the fox up. It was terrifyingly light. Back at his camp's tent, he wrapped the fox in a thermal blanket and put it in his lap. He opened one of his own ration cans—a thick stew. He didn't know if it would even eat.

Then, the fox, smelling the warmth, lifted its head for the first time. Aris slowly spoon-fed the broth to the little creature. He might be a scientist, but in that moment, he was just a man refusing to let a spark of life go out in the cold. 

He isn't allowed to interfere. But when he found the tiny animal, alone and freezing, the rule book went out the window.

Dr. Aris Thorne is a man who loves the cold. For six months a year, he lives at a remote Arctic research station, studying climate change's effect on the tundra. His life is governed by data, and by the primary rule of wildlife biology: observe, but never, ever interfere.

He was on his way back from checking a weather sensor, the snow crunching under his boots, when he saw a small flicker of white against the ice. It wasn't a snowdrift. It was a tiny Arctic fox, curled into a tight ball, its body shivering violently.

He knelt. The fox was so weak it couldn't even lift its head. It was a juvenile, starving, and its ribs stuck out like a tiny cage. Aris knew the cold, hard truth: this is how nature works. The weak don't survive. His training told him to walk away.

He stood there for a full minute, the wind whipping his face. He thought of the data, the rules, the ethics. Then he looked at the tiny, dying creature. "To hell with the rules," he muttered.

He gently scooped the fox up. It was terrifyingly light. Back at his camp's tent, he wrapped the fox in a thermal blanket and put it in his lap. He opened one of his own ration cans—a thick stew. He didn't know if it would even eat.

Then, the fox, smelling the warmth, lifted its head for the first time. Aris slowly spoon-fed the broth to the little creature. He might be a scientist, but in that moment, he was just a man refusing to let a spark of life go out in the cold.