Will got out of the jeep and approached. Adrianna, always armed with a rifle under these kind of conditions, followed two or three strides behind. She knew Will's methodology by now: he wouldn't waste film on long shots; he'd get as close as he could without disturbing the animals and then he'd wait. And wait; and wait. Even amongst his peers - wildlife photographers who thought nothing of waiting a week for a picture - his patience was legendary. In this, as in so many other things, he was a paradox. Adrianna had seen him at publishing parties grinding his teeth with boredom after five minutes of an admirer's chit-chat; but here, watching four polar bears on a piece of wasteland, he would sit happily mesmerized until he found the moment he wanted to seize.
It was plain he was not interested in either the adolescents or the female. It was the old male he wanted to photograph. He glanced over at Adrianna, and silently indicated the path he was going to take between the other animals, so as to get as close to his subject as possible. She'd no sooner nodded her comprehension than Will was off, sure-footed even on the ice-slickened dirt. The adolescents took no notice of him. But the female, who was certainly large enough to kill either Will or Adrianna with a swipe if she took a mind to do so, ceased her investigations of the truck and sniffed the air. Will froze; Adrianna did the same, rifle at the ready if the bear made an aggressive move. But perhaps because she'd smelt so many people in the vicinity of the dump, the bear wasn't interested in this particular scent. She returned to gutting the truck seats, and Will was off again, towards the male. By now Adrianna had grasped the shot Will was after: a low angle, looking up the slope of the hillock