Part 4
Walt called Rebecca before entering the workshop.
“Use the divider,” she told him. “Do not go into the mother’s side until she’s secured.”
He lowered the sliding panel that separated the bobcat from the service area. The mother struck it once with both front paws, making the plywood shudder.
Walt opened the inner hatch and lifted the motionless kitten with a towel. Its body felt cooler than it should have.
He began warming it gradually while Rebecca drove through the storm. He rubbed the kitten’s chest with two fingers and kept its airway clear, resisting the urge to do too much too fast.
A breath came—small and irregular.
Then another.
By the time Rebecca arrived, the kitten was moving weakly. She administered warmed fluids beneath its skin and checked the mother, whose milk supply had dropped because of dehydration and infection.
For the next twelve hours, Rebecca supplemented both kittens while treating the adult female. Walt recorded every feeding but let Rebecca’s trained volunteers do the handling.
That surrender was harder than he expected.
For thirty-one years, people had stepped aside when Walt entered an emergency. Now he had to watch younger hands perform work his heart no longer allowed him to claim.
The kitten survived.
Two days later, the mother ate half a rabbit and allowed both newborns to nurse. Scout began placing weight on the injured paw. When the yearling moved without limping for three consecutive steps, Walt caught himself smiling at the monitor.
The road reopened, but Rebecca decided moving the family again would create more risk than benefit. Nate approved another short extension while a secure outdoor enclosure was prepared at Rebecca’s rehabilitation property.
Walt bought generator fuel and fresh meat despite Rebecca’s offer to reimburse him. His county pension and Social Security covered the basics, but not much beyond them. He began eating soup from cans so old that June’s handwriting still marked their lids.
One afternoon, Scout reached through the service opening while Walt changed the water tray and caught the cuff of his gray wool sock. The yearling pulled until the sock came halfway off his foot.
Walt froze.
Scout released it immediately and retreated.
On the monitor later, he watched the cat drag the stolen sock into the nesting corner.
Rebecca made him remove it.
“Human-scented objects encourage habituation,” she said.
“It stole from me. Again.”
“That does seem to be its specialty.”
It was the only time Walt heard her laugh that week.
The following evening, a black pickup stopped beside the cabin. Calvin Rusk stepped out carrying a grocery sack and a bottle of bourbon.
Cal owned a bait shop, guided hunters in season, and called himself an outfitter. Walt had known him for fifteen years without ever knowing him well.
“Heard you’ve been having an adventure,” Cal said.
Walt remained in the doorway. “Who told you?”
“Small town.”
Cal held up the sack. “Smoked sausage, bread, coffee. Figured you could use real food.”
Walt accepted the groceries but not the bourbon.
Cal’s attention moved toward the locked workshop.
“They in there?”
“They’re under a licensed rehabilitator’s care.”
“Sure. I heard.”
Something about the speed of his answer made Walt uneasy.
Cal leaned against the porch post. “I know a fellow across Wisconsin who runs a private wildlife park. Proper fences, veterinary care, the whole thing. He’d pay two thousand for the family.”
“They’re not for sale.”
“Call it a transfer fee.”
“Still illegal.”
Cal’s smile narrowed. “You’re on a fixed income. You need heart medication. Two grand would do more for you than those cats disappearing into the woods.”
Walt thought of the cable buried in the mother’s leg.
“If they disappear into the woods,” he said, “we did our job.”
Cal studied him for a moment. “You always did enjoy being the hero.”
“No. I enjoyed bringing people home.”
“June might disagree.”
Walt’s hand tightened around the grocery sack.
“Get off my property.”
Cal straightened. The neighborly warmth left his face, though his voice remained calm.
“Fine. But when people hear you’ve got a wildcat beside your house, they won’t all feel as charitable as I do.”
As the truck backed away, its headlights swept across the open bed.
Beside two traps and a coil of chain lay a spool of red-coated cable.
Walt took out his phone and photographed it.
Ten minutes later, he sent the picture to Nate.
Before Nate could answer, another notification appeared. Someone had posted a photograph of Walt’s cabin in the local Facebook group.
The caption warned that an unstable widower was secretly keeping “dangerous wild cats” in a residential building. The post had been live for six minutes. It had already been shared forty-three times…
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