O N E

K A T E

Part 1 of 8

Library of Congress subject headings: 1. Collapse—Fiction. 2. Panarchy—Fiction. 3. College students—Fiction. 4. Fracking—Fiction. 5. Student strikes—Fiction. 6. Ohio—Fiction.

Softcover ISBN 9781927032831 Hardcover ISBN 9781927032848 © Ted Bernard, 2018

Editing, design: Peter Geldart, Danielle Aubrey Petra Books | petrabooks.ca Cover art and interior graphics: Emily Apgar.

Diagrams on pages 74 and 75: From Panarchy edited by Lance H. Gunderson and C.S. Holling. Copyright © 2002 Island Press. Reproduced by permission of Island Press, Washington, DC.

This is a work of fiction. All names and places are creations of the author. Efforts have been made to contact copyright holders. For inquiries or corrections, please reach out to the publisher; updates will be reflected in future editions.

> “The educated global citizen may be aware of today’s 'small world' but almost certainly they have little idea of its vulnerability. They are oblivious because the social and political institutions — in fact, even environmental and resource management institutions — dedicate vast resources to stave off breakdown, to invent workarounds, and to cover up or misconstrue warning signs.” > > — Katja Nickleby

DEDICATION

For my Millennial students and those whose legacy they carry. Although I cannot take full responsibility for the troubled world you’ve inherited, I sincerely apologize for the lack of foresight from my generation.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Had C.S. Buzz Holling not inspired countless scholars and educators, including myself, I could never have developed the theory of change from which this narrative springs. My gratitude extends to him and the Resilience Alliance for their remarkable contributions to science. I am deeply thankful to Danielle Aubrey of Petra Books for her unwavering support, insightful critiques, and openness to the novel's premise and characters. I owe much to the readers who provided feedback during this story's evolution, especially Ann Barr, whose thoughtful editing significantly enhanced our friendship. I also appreciate the encouragement from Jonathan Bernard, James Bernard, Geoff Buckley, Lois Carlson, Nedra Chandler, Joe Brehm, Eden Kinkaid, Lily Gianna Woodmansee, Kevin Hansen, Patricia Parker, and Donna Lofgren, particularly Donna, for her daily acts of kindness amid the looming 400-page task. Emily Apgar skillfully designed the cover, and her professionalism reflects her mentorship under Professor Julie Elman. Finally, I am forever grateful to the countless students over the years who have challenged, inspired, and befriended me; I would be nowhere without them.

O N E

K A T E

> Through the weathering of our spirit, the erosion of our soul, we are vulnerable. Isn’t that what passion is — bodies broken open through change? > > — Terry Tempest Williams

THE AFTERNOONS IN SOUTHERN OHIO during the 2030s were oppressively hot. Instead of resting in the shade, he wandered away from the village. He eventually reached a cluster of river birch trees on the east riverbank after a thirty-minute stroll. Through the hazy August air, he glanced at the confluence. The Big River had receded, its dams and locks destroyed by the catastrophic flood of 2021. It flowed freely, allowing one to ride a horse across it in this season—if one owned a horse. Below him, the Shawnee River twisted atop sediment that had once defined its channel, now widened and relocated over fifty years ago. He noticed the remnants of a helicopter crash, pointing towards a severed bridge—a reminder of times gone awry. The riverbank forest was encroaching on the floodplain, with native species like sycamore, birch, willow, elm, and cottonwood reclaiming land once cleared for agriculture and industry. Although the wreckage was partially overtaken by Japanese honeysuckle, its memory lingered.

In his grasp was a weathered book, a treasured text penned by his mentor. Occasionally, amidst the burdens of life, he would revisit a chapter, reflecting on its foresight and reaffirming his gratitude toward its author. His thoughts drifted to an evening in Africa back in ’08.

~

The camp was shrouded in equatorial twilight. Soon, darkness would envelop it. The persistent sounds of weavers and the mournful calls of doves began to fade. Nocturnal creatures would soon awaken: frogs by the river, hyenas howling, male lions roaring, wild dogs barking, and owls calling—the symphony of the African savanna.

Their camp was nestled in a fever tree forest near a fast-flowing stream heading southeast toward the Indian Ocean. Towering mountains loomed above, their rich volcanic soils and lush forests filled with various broadleaf evergreen trees soaring thirty meters high, their vines and epiphytes soaking up rainfall that could fill a swimming pool in a year. He who had traversed those forests could envision the winding paths worn by generations of honey hunters, hear the calls of black and white Colobus monkeys high in Podocarpus trees, sense forest elephants moving stealthily, and smell the pungency of growth and decay.

They had chosen a secluded spot downslope from those majestic mountains, it was July, and nights were brisk. Absalom, his assistant, had kindled a lively fire while he and Kate prepared dinner. She had just arrived to help conclude their two-year field project. They gathered to eat kuku kwa wali—tough chicken butchered just hours earlier, paired with rice, pigeon peas, and onions—while sipping warm beers.

After dinner, they shared the dishes, secured their belongings from night-raiding animals, and moved closer to the fire. Absalom added more wood, causing the flames to flicker brightly against the starlit sky for a moment. Kate Nickleby relished the tranquility of the African bush, a soothing balm for her anxious spirit. Absalom reminded her that two generations before, this very spot had been a battlefield: Shifta insurgents clashing with soldiers from the Kenya African Rifles.

“Indeed, and just a day’s drive north, we have al Shabab making headlines,” she replied. “They make the Shifta of the sixties seem like amateurs. I hate to repeat myself, but their terrorism is yet another emergent property of our fragile world.”

“What are we to do?” Absalom inquired.

“Drink another Tusker,” Kate responded, her smile almost gleeful.

Later, after Absalom excused himself, she and Kate settled into a familiar, hushed conversation about life in the field, Kenyan politics, Wisconsin gossip, climate change, and other heartfelt matters. He observed her in the flickering firelight: this beautiful woman, a decade older than him, with flawless skin, a fit physique, an unusual diamond-shaped face, lilac-gray eyes, and curly sandy hair, exuding warmth without pretension. That night, he was certain no past lover had ever appeared so enchanting beneath a vast canopy of stars, far removed from their usual roles.

In their years of collaboration, Kate had evolved into more than a mentor, co-author, or platonic friend. Innocently, he welcomed the deepening bond, feeling secure in sharing his innermost thoughts. She too felt irrationally safe with her peaceful student, whose insights inspired her uniquely, their roles often strangely reversed. She recognized her longing and the impossibility of stifling desire, yearning for an intimacy both perilous and elusive. Her gaze traced his lean form, and her heart raced uncertainly.

Upon hearing rustling at the camp's edge, he stepped away to investigate. He caught sight of two bush babies scurrying up a fever tree, their wide eyes perplexed by the torchlight. Returning to Kate, he found her lost in thought, gazing beyond the dwindling fire. “A shilling for your thoughts,” he said softly.

“I’m thinking about you, my dear friend. About your research and how soon we must part. It makes me a little melancholy.” Her accent, a blend of South African and Canadian English, resonated with familiarity, reminiscent of his mother's voice, mixed with a hint of Latvian.

Here lies an intriguing twist, he pondered. Does Kate seek my consolation? He hesitated, aiming to shift the conversation. “There will be other students eager to learn from you, and we will continue to co-author exceptional papers. We’ll generate countless questions to explore for the rest of our lives.”

She leaned closer. “Yes, but I am a woman with a clock ticking. Come here.” She grasped his hand, but he pulled away, pausing at the space between them. Observing his reluctance, she moved smoothly into his embrace. She seemed to be trembling. “Hold me, hold me.” After a long moment of deliberation, she unbuttoned his shirt and let it drop to the ground, followed by her own blouse. Now, with skin against skin, their hands fervent on taut muscles, they kissed—an eternity lingering at the brink of change.

~

As he began to read the book's first chapter, his thoughts drifted to another day at the University of Wisconsin in early 2009, one of the most sorrowful of his life, foreshadowed by that night at the African campfire. Over the years, he had pieced together fragments of that day, which were essential to his purpose in life.

~

Kate looked out her window into the darkness. Behind her, a small office cluttered with the remnants of a flourishing academic life, an open laptop on a steel desk. Across the street, dorm lights flickered off one by one. She felt exhausted. Was it time to head home? Rubbing her temples, she sensed fatigue creeping into her shoulders and arms. At thirty-eight, her health and fitness seemed to be waning. With middle age approaching, she felt out of shape: sculpted arms, slim thighs, a flat stomach—where had they gone? She rationalized that the life of the mind was superior to physical appearance.

Amidst a flourishing career, in the midst of a grueling semester, Professor Katja “Kate” Nickleby, on a frigid winter night in Wisconsin, put the finishing touches on her book, which reviewers predicted would be a bestseller—the ‘Silent Spring’ of her times. Everything she had accomplished in her illustrious career led to this moment, and she was only days away from submitting the final draft. She refocused on her work, feeling it was owed to her students.

In the four steps from the window to her desk, she felt a small pang just below her left breast. Subtle yet familiar, like a deep nerve twitch with a metallic edge. She ignored it. Sitting down, she pulled her chair closer to the desk. Nausea surged in her throat. She swallowed hard, feeling clammy. A jolt, sharp as an electric shock, shot from her chest to her left arm, then her shoulder, neck, and jaw. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Realizing she had waited too long, she stood, feeling dizzy. Her vision blurred as she searched for her phone. She spotted it on a stack of books and staggered toward it. A colorful, iridescent fog enveloped the room, momentarily dazzling her. She needed to call someone. Yet, her mind wouldn’t focus; she didn’t remember she was holding the phone. She collapsed, her face hitting the floor.

~

He dabbed at his eyes at the recollection. He remembered that morning, jogging swiftly toward Nelson Hall at 6:15 AM, in freezing darkness. The snow crunched underfoot like granulated sugar. Turning onto Bayview, he saw the swirling lights of an ambulance. Reaching the top of the stairs, he encountered a commotion: campus police, first responders, and custodial staff buzzing around an office three doors from his. He approached Hernando Valdez.

“Nando, is it Kate?”

“Yes, it is, Stefan.” His voice was mournful, barely audible; his gaze was downcast. “She passed away last night. I found her just a few minutes ago. My supervisor called the police. They await the coroner.”

An officer approached, asking Stefan to follow him to Kate’s office. Her body lay on a gurney, covered, with an EMT at the head. The officer turned to him and asked, “If you’re able, could you please identify the deceased?”

He nodded, somber, eyes stinging.

They removed the sheet. Seeing her familiar face, bruised and lifeless as plaster, tears fell uncontrollably. Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he confirmed the identity. When questioned, he relayed what little he knew: Kate was born in Cape Town, grew up in Hamilton, Ontario, attended McMaster University, and earned her PhD at the University of Manitoba. He mentioned she was single and lived near Vilas Park.

The day dragged on. In the departmental commons, fellow graduate students sipped coffee, somber and silent, g