"So, he's learning that humans equal food?”
Tate stops walking and looks at me. "Yeah. He's learning. And if he keeps interacting with humans, it’ll end up costing him his life. I’ve seen it before. Bears put down because they won’t stay away from people. And it all starts with someone’s bag of potato chips or jar of peanut butter.”
We finish the loop back at my site. The RV sits there in the shade, awning still rolled, my whole life packed into twenty-eight feet of aluminum. Four years, and I can still break camp in under an hour. I’ve become a pro at being on the road.
"Nice rig," Tate says.
"She's home."
"And she’ll be parked here for the next fourteen weeks." He says it easily, no edge, just repeating what's in my paperwork.But his eyes stay on me a beat too long, and I get the unsettling feeling he heard everything I didn't say.
"That's the contract," I say.
"Mm." He hands me a laminated card, emergency numbers, gate codes, his cell for when I'm in town and off radio. His handwriting is small and square. "Anything you need in the next few days, just ask. Doesn't have to be an emergency."
"I'm pretty good at handling things myself."
"I noticed," he says. "You leveled that rig alone in under ten minutes. Most couples take thirty, and one of them ends up sleeping outside." He almost smiles again, and I'm annoyed at how much I want to see the full version.
That's when the voice comes from Loop B, a man in a fishing vest, waving like he's flagging down a rescue plane. "Hey! Ranger! Somebody trashed the bin by site nineteen. Garbage everywhere. And I'm telling you, something big went through the brush behind our tent last night. My wife heard it breathing."
Tate turns. And I watch it happen, the warmth doesn't disappear exactly, it just files itself away behind something quicker and harder. He's already moving, radio up, eyes on the tree line past site nineteen where the huckleberry runs thick.
"Neely." Not looking at me. "Walk with me. Orientation's not over."
I unclip my radio and follow.
CHAPTER 2
Tate
Thebinatnineteenis on its side, lid wrenched back on its hinge, and the story is written all over the gravel for anyone who wants to read it.
I crouch and examine the evidence.
Hot dog wrappers dragged eight feet toward the brush. A flattened marshmallow bag, licked clean. Chip crumbs in a scatter pattern that says he took his time. And in the soft dirt at the bin's base, one clear print, front paw, maybe four inches across. Small. Young. Definitely our juvenile bear.
"Latch failed?" Neely asks behind me. She's kept back a respectful distance, notebook already out, which I appreciate.She seems to be as detail oriented as I am. I think we’ll work well together.
"Latch didn't fail." I point to the hasp, bent outward, and to the bungee cord somebody looped through it. "Latch got left unsecured because someone's cooler wouldn't fit inside, so they bungeed the lid down over the overflow. Bear peeled it like a can."
The camper wearing a fishing vest—Mr. Dressel from site seventeen, he informs us—hovers with his arms crossed. "So, it was a bear. I told Karen it was a bear."
"It was a bear," I confirm. "Young male, been in the area a few weeks. You did the right thing flagging me down." I say it because it's true and because a camper who feels useful will report the next thing too. "Anything left out at your site last night? Cooler, stove, dish water?"
"Everything's in the box." A pause. "Well, Karen's hand lotion might be on the picnic table."
"Hand lotion goes in the box, too," Neely says, before I can. Her tone is friendly, and she’s jotting something in her notebook. "I'll do a walk-through this evening and remind campers about things like lo. tion, bug spray, and sunscreen.”
Dressel nods at her obediently. She's got thatthing, whatever it is, that makes people stop and listen. A voice that makes you feel taken care of instead of policed. It’s not a quality that can be trained. You either have it or you don’t.
I'm still cataloging that when the maintenance truck rattles up, and Ollie Barnes unfolds out of it, all elbows and sunburn, cap on backward like always.
"Heard 'bear' on the radio," he says. "Is it the little guy? I've been calling him Doug."
"Don't name the bear, Ollie."
"Too late. He's got a face, Tate. I couldn’t help myself. And he looks like a Doug." Ollie catches sight of Neely and sticks hishand out. "Ollie Barnes, trails and maintenance and whatever else nobody wants to do. You're the new host? That your rig at the front? Sweet setup. My cousin had one like it, maybe a touch smaller, but it caught fire. A wiring issue. He should have let me look at it. I would have—”
