Around a long table of polished wood sat people in dark business suits. The air held the scent of expensive cologne and fresh printer ink from new folders. Officer Coleman stood by the big window with a stack of documents in his hands. His jaw slowly dropped when he saw who had walked in. In the perfect silence, the only sound was black swamp water dripping from Victor’s sleeve onto the clean floor. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Victor walked right up to the edge of the table. He pulled the soaked cloth from his inside pocket. With dirty, scraped, bleeding fingers, he carefully unfolded it. A damp handwritten statement landed on the polished surface, leaving a wet stain. Then, with a sharp metallic click, the spent brass casing dropped on top of it.
— .308 caliber, — Victor said in a hoarse, cracked voice, looking straight at the head of the commission. — Strict departmental inventory. Ballistics will tell you exactly which rifle killed that bear. I have a wild animal at my home being held without authorization. Draw up the official seizure and transfer to a licensed rehabilitation center. Right now.
The gray-haired man at the head of the table slowly shifted his heavy gaze from the dirty casing to Coleman, who had gone pale by the window. No one in the room said a word. Only an expensive leather chair gave a long creak.
Exactly two weeks later, a white cargo van with federal plates pulled up beside the old log cabin. Two solidly built men in gray uniforms with bright patches from an interstate wildlife facility climbed out of the cab. Officer Coleman was not among them. The spring woods smelled sharply of thawed earth and swelling birch buds.
The men lowered a heavy transport crate made of thick aluminum bars onto the dead grass. The metal gate rolled upward with a loud clank. Victor led the grown cub out of the dark mudroom on a short canvas lead. The young bear lumbered on his big paws, drawing in the smell of diesel fuel and unfamiliar people. His thick brown coat shone in the bright spring sun.
One of the handlers, wearing gloves, placed a large piece of fresh river fish in the far corner of the crate. Buddy sniffed loudly and paused at the entrance. He took one uncertain step onto the ribbed metal ramp. Then another. The roomy crate did not frighten the young bear. He walked inside calmly, and the metal door dropped with a dry click, cutting him off from the people for good.
Mary stood on the wooden porch, lips pressed tight, hands buried in her jacket pockets. She watched in silence as the white government van slowly turned around, crushing last year’s leaves under its wide tires. The powerful engine hummed evenly as it headed down the cleared logging road. Soon the sound faded into the waking spring woods.
Victor climbed the creaking steps slowly. He looked into the dark corner of the mudroom, at the place where the cub they had saved had slept for months. On the dusty wooden floor, beside an overturned plastic bucket, lay a piece of dirty yellow rubber. The chewed-up bottle nipple, punctured in a dozen places, was no longer needed by the growing bear. Victor bent down, picked up the piece of rubber, and without a word tossed it into the hot firebox of the cast-iron stove. Blue flame caught the yellow material at once, turning it into a little pile of gray ash.
