— Poachers killed the mother near my property. From an SUV. Wildlife officers drive the same tread on their department rigs, — Victor answered in a flat, quiet voice. — They’ll put him down or sell him off for bait the same day. They don’t have any real state sanctuary for cubs.
Barnes let out a long breath and sat back down. He opened the squeaky top drawer and pulled out a clean standard form with a blue stamp.
— I never said any of this. I’ll write you a certificate for a Caucasian shepherd puppy. That’ll get you through a train or bus check if it comes to that. But you won’t hide him long out here. Somebody will see, or the wardens will hear soon enough.
Victor folded the crisp sheet into quarters and tucked it into his inside pocket.
— I don’t have close neighbors. And I’ll handle the officers myself.
That evening they sat in the small kitchen of their log cabin. Mary rubbed baking soda into the chewed nipple, cleaning out the milk residue. Victor carefully cleaned the disassembled shotgun with an oily rag. The air smelled of gun oil.
On the table lay the official response from the regional Department of Natural Resources. The morning mail carrier had brought it. On the white letter-size sheet was a short dry statement: “Review of applications from private individuals seeking to establish wildlife rehabilitation facilities is temporarily suspended.”
Mary set the clean yellow nipple on a dry dish towel. She looked at the shotgun bolt in her husband’s hands. The bureaucracy had begun to tighten around them, slow and steady, like a steel trap.
