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“You could consider apologizing, you know!”
Her words dug into my skin. She might as well have been grabbing me and shaking me. I was shaking anyway.
“For what?” I finally said, unable to speak any meaningful words.
“For what? Really, Bishop? You killed him. You killed him in cold blood. They’re right about you, aren’t they? You’re a sociopath. You have no remorse and no conscience. You don’t care at all about what you’ve done.”
I looked up and stared into her smooth, brown eyes. Even as a child, I wished I had her eyes instead of my father’s. There was too much of him in me, and I’d proven that.
“Well, good luck with the rest of your life.” The chair scraped across the floor loudly as she pushed it back and stood up. “I hope you rot in here!”
“I saved your life!” I didn’t know where the words came from. “You know I did! Why can’t you even admit that to yourself!”
“Saved my life?” My mother’s mouth dropped open and a tear rolled down her reddened cheeks. “You think you saved me? You ruined my life, Bishop. You ruined it. I can’t even go home now because of what you did. I wish I had listened to my own mother. I should never have had you.”
Solo’s claws dig into the skin of my neck, and I wince.
“Careful!” I pull him off my chest and set him down in the seat.
I pour myself a glass of whiskey and light a cigarette off one of the candles. Solo tries to climb back up my leg, so I find an old towel in the bathroom closet and place it in one of the boxes from the store. It’s a small box but just about the right size for the little kitten.
I place the makeshift bed near the fire, and Solo checks it out immediately. He walks around it a couple of times before placing a foot inside. After doing this a couple of times, he climbs in and starts kneading the towel. He looks up at me and howls once.
“What? You were expecting Egyptian linens?” I laugh and take a sip of my drink. It burns my throat, but I welcome the feeling. I haven’t had any alcohol since last winter; it never lasts long. Neither do the cigarettes though I’m better at rationing those.
Now that Solo is settled, I make myself dinner out of the perishable food I bought in town. It won’t last long but should give me what I need to get through the latter part of winter when my primary diet will be nothing more than caribou meat and snowshoe hares. I’ve got plenty of vitamins to help supplement whatever nutrients I’m missing.
Once my dishes are washed in warm water heated on the fire and set on the counter to dry, I load the fireplace up with the heaviest logs in the bin and prepare for the night. I blow out the candles, navigating the small, familiar space by firelight alone. I hang my jeans on the rack near the fire—the cuffs are still a little damp from the snow outside—and place my boots near the heat as well.
I strip off my remaining clothing and shiver for a moment until my skin gets used to the chill. Boxers and socks go into a basket in the bathroom, but I hang my shirt up with the jeans. It isn’t wet, but it helps me separate what’s been worn and what hasn’t. Doing laundry is a luxury and uses a lot of water, so I keep it to a minimum.
I climb into bed, welcoming the weight and the warmth of the blankets—one thermal, one wool. In the closet, there’s a bear hide with the fur still attached, but I won’t need that until it gets colder.
I’m only in bed for a minute before Solo whines and crawls his way up the edge of the blanket, meowing constantly. He climbs onto my thigh and then walks up my body until his face is right up near mine. He yowls loudly.
“I got you your own bed,” I say.
He doesn’t appear to care.
I sigh, too tired to bother arguing with him, and let him curl up on my chest. His purr is comforting, and his body heat added to my own makes the bed that much warmer.
Two hours later, he wakes me up with his cries and moans. Eventually, I crawl out of bed and get him some more milk, which calms him down enough that we can both go back to sleep. Three hours later, we start all over again.
By the time the sun is up, I feel like I haven’t slept at all. Solo, on the other hand, is very active. As I wash up and get dressed, he explores the rest of the cabin, getting into the firewood, the supplies I have yet to put away, and almost getting his nose snapped in a mousetrap back in the closet.
As tempted as I am to spend the day inside and maybe take a nap, I still have a lot to do before the weather gets any worse. There will be plenty of time to sleep through the winter. I feed Solo one more time, get my hunting bow and hunting equipment, and head outside.
I’ve got a lot of meat stored in the locker at the back of the barn, but one more caribou would make sure I didn’t run out or have to track the herd through the deep snows.
The barren-ground caribou in this area are already migrating, though some exist throughout the winter months, migrating from further north. As long as there are conifer trees to munch on and water to drink, they’ll stick around. The marshes of this area work well for finding the herds quickly, and I also know where to look. More importantly, I know when to look.
Parking the Jeep a good distance away, I set myself up at the edge of the trees and wait. As the wind shifts, I change my position, making sure I’ll be downwind when the herd arrives to drink from the marsh waters. It’s comparatively warm today, and some of the snow is melting, but I know from the weather radio that snow is on the way, probably tonight. If it’s a big storm, I might not have another hunting opportunity for a while, so I have to make this one count.
As I move from one group of trees to another, I come across some Shaggy Mane mushrooms. It’s late in the season for them, but a couple haven’t gone inky and black. They’ll make a good meal tonight.
I hear the herd approaching before I see it. When the first few bucks appear around an outcropping of trees and head for the water, an eagle flies overhead, looking for its own dinner. Caribou travel stirs up a lot of smaller mammals for the eagles to hunt.
I wait—patient, silent, and still. I pick out my mark early and anticipate the best time to shoot. The creature turns, showing me its side. Adrenaline flows through me as I aim carefully, and my arrow flies straight into the animal’s flank, puncturing a lung. I run toward the fallen caribou and finish it with my knife.
