The Wolves of Winter. Tyrell Johnson

stole my kill. Trapped a buck down in the ravine and he snipped my wire.”

      Jeryl took the small bristled brush and stabbed it into his rifle. The smell of the cleaning fluid—I had no idea how he still had some left; maybe he made his own—blended with the scent of old spruce beams, filling the cabin with a heady, heavy aroma.

      “And?”

      “And? What do you mean and? Isn’t that enough? He’s a thieving bastard.”

      He eyed me. Both he and his mustache disapproving. “And what happened next?”

      “I told him the animal was mine, tried to make him give it back.”

      “And he didn’t.” It wasn’t a question, but I answered it anyway.

      “And he didn’t.”

      The meat was freezing my entire face and melding into my cheek. I pulled it off. It was heavy in my hands. Solid protein and fat. If it thawed, we’d have to eat it that night.

      Jeryl looked up. “I’ll talk to him.”

      “Talk to him? We gotta kill him! He’s been nothing but trouble since he moved in. First he steals my kill, next he’ll steal our meat right out from under us. Who knows, maybe he’ll kill us in our sleep. He’s gotta go.” I didn’t like raising my voice to Jeryl. Maybe because he always seemed so calm, or maybe because, for better or worse, he tried his best to fill in for my dad. He failed, but at least he tried.

      Jeryl turned his gun over, examining his work. “You know how many people are left in this world?”

      The chamber clicked shut. A sad wind rattled through the cabin.

      “No,” I said.

      He nodded. “Me neither,” he said, as if that proved his point.

      Uncle Jeryl was the least superstitious man in the world. Sure, he believed in God, but in the most normal way possible. Went to church on Sunday—back when there was a church to go to—prayed before each meal, and did his best to do things right.

      He never went in for luck, energy, speaking in tongues, or spiritual warfare. He called that “hippie stuff.” He had his gun, his Bible, and his razor, and he was happy. His best friend in the whole world was Ramsey’s dad, John-Henry. They’d both worked construction, had been friends since they were kids, and had done nearly everything together. Hunting, fishing, chess, school.

      When John-Henry died in the flu epidemic, Jeryl took Ramsey in, no questions asked. He was John-Henry’s son, nothing more to say. Jeryl never showed any signs of grief. He just moved on with life. Things needed to be done.

      Somewhere around the fourth spring out in the Yukon, he, Ken, and I spotted a grizzly just west of Conrad’s place. It had this strange silver marking on its back and was the biggest bear I’d ever seen. Were grizzlies supposed to be that freaking huge? Anyway, Jeryl caught us completely off guard when he lowered his gun, a strange look coming over his face. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “It’s John-Henry.”

      Ken and I looked at Jeryl, wondering if he was making a joke. He didn’t tend to make jokes.

      “What do you mean?” Ken asked.

      “I mean exactly what I said. That’s John-Henry right there.” He smiled, which was incredibly rare, and shook his head. “Old rascal.”

      We looked from the bear, who was digging something up in the snow, to Jeryl, who was now eyeing the bear through the scope on his rifle.

      “Jeryl,” Ken said. “You don’t mean that the bear there is John-Henry, do you? John-Henry, your friend? The one who’s been dead for years?”

      “I know he’s dead, son. You think I don’t? I also know John-Henry when I see him, and I tell you what: that bear is John-Henry.”

      Jeryl took aim.

      “Wait,” I said. “If that’s John-Henry, why’re you going to kill him?” I wasn’t really concerned for the bear or John-Henry. I was mostly confused and a little bit scared that our uncle had lost it.

      Jeryl lowered the rifle. “Got to let him go. You think he wants to be a grizzly?” He asked the question like it was the most natural thing in the world. No, of course he didn’t want to be a grizzly, who would?

      Jeryl aimed again, but either we spooked the bear or he found something interesting on the other side of the hill because he bounded out of sight. Jeryl lowered his rifle and stepped in the direction of the bear. “Gotta go after him.”

      “That’s a terrible idea,” Ken said. “We—”

      “Didn’t say we,” Jeryl said. “I gotta go after him. Head on back. I’ll be home for dinner.”

      Then he started down the hill after that giant John-Henry grizzly. Ken yelled after him, saying that he was being stupid and was going to get himself killed. It’s not like we didn’t think Jeryl could hunt and kill the bear, but the whole thing felt weird. And wrong. Either way, Jeryl continued like he was in a trance, not turning or acknowledging Ken in the least.

      We did see Jeryl that evening for dinner. He came back with a distant look on his face. A mixture of joy and grief—I can’t really explain it. But the John-Henry bear had eluded him.

      “He’ll be back,” Jeryl said. “Or I’ll find him. I owe him that much.”

      Since then, Jeryl’s been on the lookout for that bear. And we all pretty much ignore it.

      “No, you won’t talk to him; we’re going to run him off our property and that’s that.” Mom threw another log on the fire. Ashes scattered like dust and a coal jumped out, landing on our very burnable floor. Jeryl stomped it out with his boot, his gun relaxed in the crook of his arm. Mom had turned into a cornered animal the moment she saw my face. She was all black stares and narrow eyes. Green eyes, like mine. Red hair, like mine. She was taller than me, but everyone said I looked like her. And although we didn’t always agree, we agreed on this. About Conrad. Talking wasn’t good enough.

      “Nobody’s running anybody anywhere,” Jeryl said, calm as ever.

      “Oh, so you’re fine with this?” She pointed to my face. “We just let him get away with it?”

      “Didn’t say that. Said I’ll talk to him.”

      “The only talking he’ll listen to is at the end of your gun.”

      “Maybe, but I’m gonna try my way first,” Jeryl said.

      She glared. She had a good glare too. It had sharpened over the years. When Dad was around, before the flu, it was a dull pencil. Now, through hardship and a shitload of cold air, it was a fine needle. Not that it did anything to old Jeryl. He stared right back at her. Me in the middle. I felt anger pooling in the pit of my stomach. This was exactly what I didn’t want, them fighting over me like I was a child.

      “Well, when are you going?” Mom asked.

      Jeryl nodded as if that was permission to leave and headed toward the door.

      “I’m coming too,” I said, stepping toward Jeryl.

      “No,” both Jeryl and Mom said at the same time.

      “It’s my problem, I’m going to fix it.”

      “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Mom said.

      “I agree,” said Jeryl, lowering his thick gray eyebrows at me. “You’ll only make it worse.”

      “Maybe it needs to be made worse.”

      “Lynn,” he said in his most serious tone. “You trust