The Tourist Trail by John Yunker

she could unfold the old pocket knife she kept in her backpack, calmly saw through the fibrous left wing of the bird, and pocket the stainless steel tag.
    But this was all before Aeneas. Now, every penguin she measured had the saddest of eyes. Every dead chick nearly brought her to tears. Just a day and a half. Two nights. And now it was morning again, and the pain of his absence, like a migraine, had not subsided, blurring the terrain.
    In her backpack was a new satellite tracking device. A wealthy supporter had recently “adopted” a penguin with a generous donation. Shelly had selected the penguin to be tagged. She had a knack for selecting males who would return, a feat that Angela had not yet mastered, with penguins or men.
    Angela hiked alone to the nest in the north, at the very edge of the colony. She tried to ignore the fact that it was not far from where she’d first found Aeneas. At the nest, the penguins crouched defiantly in their burrow, guarding their young, heads waving. Angela did not want to bother them this morning, to tear them apart from each other even for a moment.
    For now, for once, she would let science wait. She sat down and stared off into the hills. Then she heard a voice.
    â€œAngela.”
    She turned around. It was Aeneas, in his yellow florescent jacket.
    She blinked, doubting her eyes. But he was still there, watching her. She stood and smiled, but he did not smile back. Slowly, he approached and pressed a shiny steel penguin tag into her tattered, blood-stained wool glove. She held it up and read the numbers.
    Zero four two two nine.
    â€œI am sorry,” Aeneas said.
    He had remembered Diesel’s number. The only man who probably ever would. He told her that he’d boarded two fishing vessels before he located Diesel’s body. He terrified the men with a squarely aimed shotgun that had never been fired. The crew resisted him, so he stuck them on lifeboats and sunk their trawler, the trawler that took Diesel’s life. But it was worth it, she thought. He brought Diesel home to her. He could have sunk them all, every last one.
    She pressed the metal hard between her fingers. The indentations of each digit. She could feel Diesel now, on her lap, the raspy purring noise. Gazing into his reddish-brown eyes. Imagining the thousands of miles he had traveled to be there, right there with her. This tag was all that was left.
    â€œI can’t stay,” he said. “They know I’m here.”
    Of course they did. She told him about her visitors. She could picture Aeneas cutting through the feathers and cartilage and cold blood. Sawing the tag free to return it to her. To return Diesel to her, in number only, something she could feel with her fingers and her eyes. Numbers did not lie.
    She grabbed his jacket by the sides and pulled him to her. She kissed him, his beard sanding her lips. She smelled salt air and his hands were cold but firm. She held him tight, as she would a penguin beak.
    She took him to her trailer. She lit a candle she had been saving in the sink with the drain to nowhere. The wind picked up and the walls began to vibrate. They made love as Geraldo brayed, calling out to the female he had yet to find, or had yet to find him.
    * * *
    In the morning, while Aeneas slept, Angela slid out of their cramped alcove and stared at him. Though his face and neck and arms were tanned dark brown, his body was pale and soft like a polar bear. He snored. He rolled away from her, eyes closed.
    She stepped out the trailer door and down the cinder block steps. She peeked underneath to find Geraldo blinking at her, still alone. She blinked back and smiled. In the office she hung Diesel’s tag on a chain around her neck. She looked down at the latest satellite tracking logs, more out of habit than hope. Outside the office, researchers had gathered, some with coffee. Backpacks and teams assembled. She abstained.
    â€œI’m not feeling well,” she said,