The line died in a burst of short beeps. The phone screen flickered and went black for good. Victor shoved the useless piece of plastic into the deep pocket of his coat. He looked down into the hollow where the roof of the old cabin hid among thick spruce. A thin thread of smoke rose from the crooked stone chimney.
Inside, the place smelled strongly of mice, dry wormwood, and burning pine. Mary sat on a sagging iron cot with a wire spring base. She was mending the torn sleeve of a canvas jacket with thick nylon thread. The rusty needle pushed through the stiff dirty fabric with effort.
Buddy lay by the hot little woodstove. He took up nearly half the room. His fur had grown thick and coarse, a deep chocolate brown. In his huge paws, tipped with long black claws, he held the yellow rubber nipple.
It had become a pitiful little scrap, chewed almost beyond recognition. But the bear never let it out of his sight. He rolled it across the uneven wooden floor, tossed it with his wet nose, and tucked it under his heavy belly when he slept. That dirty yellow piece of rubber was still the one thing that connected him to safety.
Victor took off his coat and hung it on a rusty nail by the doorframe. He walked to the rough table made of unfinished boards and pulled the spent brass casing from his pocket. The heavy metal gave off a dull shine in the uneven light of the kerosene lamp.
— Before daylight tomorrow, I’m heading down to town, — he said without looking at his wife. He pulled his hunting knife from its sheath and began drawing it across a sharpening stone. — The commission will be there. I’m putting a statement in their hands myself.
Mary set her sewing down on the gray army blanket. She came to the table and slowly ran one finger over the cold brass casing.
— They’ll arrest you before you even reach the county building. Coleman has probably covered every road. He won’t let you get near that commission with evidence in your pocket.
— I’ll take the old logging cut through Wolf Marsh. No patrol vehicle can get through there.
Victor pulled a topographic map printed on glossy paper from his pack. He spread it on the table, weighing down the corners with an empty tin cup and an open can of stew. His fingernail traced a crooked line from the cabin around the main roads. It was a forty-mile push through spring mud and thaw…
