The snow turned into heavy gray slush. It slid off the roof in sheets, exposing the old shingles underneath. The air was thick with the damp smell of rotting pine and wet earth. March came suddenly, bringing not warmth but a raw chill that worked its way into your bones.
The cub, whom Mary had simply named Buddy, now weighed close to thirty pounds. He no longer fit in the cardboard box. His new place was a sectioned-off corner of the mudroom lined with thick layers of dry straw and old feed sacks.
Victor came in carrying a heavy plastic bucket of small river fish. The smell of guts instantly filled the tight space. Buddy rose at once onto his hind legs, scraping his claws down the hewn log wall. The sound was dry and sharp, like a file on metal.
Victor set the bucket on the floor. He didn’t reach out to pet the animal. He knew this was no longer the frozen little bundle from the red blanket. This was a predator now. Its movements had become quick, jerky, full of hidden power.
Mary stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was holding that same glass bottle. The yellow rubber nipple was finally done for. It was full of tiny holes from teeth, warped and sticky despite all the washing.
— He barely takes milk anymore, Vic, — she said quietly. — Just fish. Yesterday he bit through my boot. He was only playing, but still.
Victor said nothing. He took the bottle from the table and turned it in his hands. The yellow rubber was the one thing that still tied this animal to their home. A symbol of the choice they had made and the trouble that came with it.
The silence broke with the distant growl of a powerful engine. The sound came from the old logging road, hardly used in winter. Victor froze. He recognized that low diesel rumble at once—the kind a heavy SUV made.
He set the bottle on the shelf beside the old kerosene lamps. Then he walked to the window and eased back the edge of the curtain. Rolling up the muddy track, splashing gray slop, came a dark green government SUV with the wildlife department emblem on the door.
It stopped right at the gate, blocking their old pickup from getting out. The engine didn’t die right away, coughing a cloud of blue exhaust into the damp air. Two men stepped out.
Officer Coleman wore brand-new camo that hadn’t yet faded in the sun. His partner, a young blond guy with a close-cropped haircut, carried a long clipboard. They took their time. Coleman knocked the mud off his boots against the low fence before pushing open the gate.
Victor stepped onto the porch. He hadn’t put on a coat, just a flannel shirt. The cold wind cut through it at once, but he didn’t so much as flinch.
— Afternoon, Sutter, — Coleman stopped about ten feet from the steps. — You’re a long way out. Barely made it through the low road…
