Tom Mercer had one strip of tape left to pull across the last box when something scraped the bottom of his front door. He held the roll still. Outside, wind drove snow against the window with a dry, steady hiss, and the loose stove damper knocked twice. The scraping stopped. He bent over the box again.
Ellen’s shawl lay on top. He had folded it small enough to fit beside the wooden case of family photographs, although she never folded it that way. She used to hang it over her chair, one end nearly touching the floor. Tomorrow somebody would help him carry this box to a van, and the little room at the care home would have no space for her chair.
He tucked the corner of the shawl out of the tape’s path.
The county caseworker had been kind. She had arranged a place in town and a ride once the road was clear, and she had made him say aloud that leaving was his choice. At seventy-two, after forty years of forestry work in northwestern Montana, Tom understood why she asked. He had told her yes. He had told Daniel yes, too, during the first conversation with his son that hadn’t fallen on a holiday in months.
He’d left out how long it took to get off the floor now. Daniel had built a successful business in Seattle; there was no reason to worry him about his father’s knees when he couldn’t do anything about them from there. Daniel had asked twice whether he was certain, and Tom had repeated himself until neither of them knew what else to say.
Another scrape came, lower than the latch. This time something struck the door three times, paused, then struck it again.
Tom straightened with a hand on the table. The photograph he had kept out until last showed Daniel at seventeen, taller than Ellen already, standing in a snow fort outside this very window. She had one mitten pressed against his cheek. Tom slid the photograph into its case and left the box open.
He took the kerosene lantern from beside the stove. Through the door came a thin sound almost lost beneath the wind. A dog, he thought, although there wasn’t another occupied house along this stretch of road. His fingers checked the knife in his pocket from habit before he lifted the latch.
The door shoved against his shoulder. He braced it with a boot and raised the lantern into the snow. The porch seemed empty until a dark shape moved beside the bottom step. An ear lifted, split along its edge, and a narrow muzzle turned toward him.
He lowered the lantern.
The youngster was stretched on its belly, hind legs gathered uselessly under it. Ice hung from the long fur at its throat. Its forepaws had left rusty marks on the pale boards, and when Tom moved the light, its eyes followed without its head coming up. The proportions caught him before the color did: the large feet, the long legs folded under a body that had grown too thin.
One of this year’s wolf pups. He had seen enough at a distance to know, but never one pressed against his doorstep. For a moment he looked past it into the trees. Nothing moved there that he could separate from the storm.
He set the lantern inside and crouched with his side turned toward the animal. He expected teeth when his hands touched the wet fur. The pup only shuddered. Tom lifted him awkwardly, one arm beneath the chest and the other under his hindquarters, and felt how little there was between his hands and the ribs.
Getting upright hurt. He leaned against the doorjamb, brought the animal inside, and pushed the door closed with his heel. The sudden quiet left him hearing the pup’s ragged breaths, louder than the stove.
The blanket was in the box under the binoculars. He pulled both out, put the binoculars on the table, and spread the wool on the floor a safe distance from the stove. Kneeling again, he worked the wetness out of the coat with an old towel. The pup lay rigid under his hands. Every so often his head turned toward the door.
“Easy. You’ve got time to be mad at me later.”
Tom moved the lantern closer. The torn ear had stopped bleeding; the paws were raw, but he could see no leg bent where it shouldn’t be. He folded the blanket around the youngster and sat beside him, rubbing warmth back into his own fingers. He had already put away the spare towels, the first-aid tin, everything a person might need if he intended to keep living here.
Ellen would have noticed that. During her illness she had kept a glass of water beside the bed even on mornings when she couldn’t lift it. He would offer to move it out of the way, and she would tell him to leave it within reach. Two years after her death, he still remembered the irritation in her voice better than the words people had said at the funeral.
The pup’s trembling eased. Tom watched until the head stayed up and the breathing settled, then warmed a little of the plain venison he’d cooked before packing. He shredded it into a shallow metal dish with some warm water and let it cool. As he set it down, the black nose worked beneath the blanket.
The youngster dragged himself toward the dish. Tom held it steady so it wouldn’t slide away. A pink tongue caught a piece of meat, then another, and the pup paused between mouthfuls with his eyes half closed. Tom found himself leaning forward, waiting for the next one.
“That’s it,” he said. “No hurry.”
There was enough for a second small helping. He stayed on the floor while the youngster ate, then sat back against the chair Ellen had chosen because it faced the window. For the first time that evening he wasn’t listening to the empty house. The metal dish clicked softly against the boards.
He expected sleep. Instead, the pup pushed clear of the blanket and stood with his legs spread. He took a wavering step toward the door, stopped, and tried again. Tom reached to guide him back; the youngster slipped past his hand and planted himself at the threshold.
“Wrong way. Your bed’s over here.”
The pup scratched at the wood. When Tom took hold of the blanket, meaning to scoop him up in it, the little wolf turned and caught the cuff of his pants. Tom felt the teeth close through the heavy cloth. The pup backed toward the door until the fabric pulled tight, hind feet sliding on the floor.
Tom eased a finger beneath the grip and freed himself. The youngster went back to the door, whined, and swung his head toward Tom. A thread of red appeared where one sore paw pressed the boards. Tom looked at the uneaten scrap in the dish and then at the blanket, still holding the shape of the body it had warmed.
He laid a hand on the latch. The pup stopped scratching at once. Then he seized Tom’s cuff again, braced all four feet, and pulled toward the cold coming under the door.
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