The wind on the ridge stung his face with fine ice. Victor stood on a frozen boulder, holding an old flip phone high over his head. On the dim screen, one weak bar of service blinked on and off. His bare fingers had gone white with cold and struggled to press the stiff plastic buttons.
It had taken them four days to reach his grandfather’s cabin. The heavy wooden sled kept bogging down in wet spring snow. Mary had rubbed her feet raw, walking behind him without complaint and adjusting the backpack straps cutting into her shoulders. Buddy walked on his own. The young bear adapted quickly to the woods, pulling in the smells of wet bark and thawing leaves with eager sniffs.
Victor hit call. A long crackling ring sounded in the speaker. He was dialing a number Dr. Barnes had quietly written down for him on a scrap of paper. It belonged to a private rehabilitation center in the next state, one with a federal license to handle large wild predators.
— Hello, — came a raspy woman’s voice. The connection broke in and out, turning the words metallic.
— Barnes gave me your number. Brown bear cub. About four months old. Around eighty pounds, — Victor said quickly, trying to save the dying battery. — Local wildlife wants him gone. I need a legal transfer.
— Without intake documents, we can’t take him, — the voice said dryly over the wind. — That’s a criminal case. You need an official transfer order through your local department. Otherwise the first highway stop will seize the vehicle and the animal.
— The department’s involved. They shot the mother from a state vehicle. I’ve got the casing. .308 brass.
A long pause followed. All he could hear was static and the nonstop howl of wind across the bare ridge.
— There’s a commission from the capital in town tomorrow. Routine forestry review. If you can put that casing and a written statement directly on their table, the locals won’t touch it. Get the transfer order. Then call us…
