The Wolves of Winter. Tyrell Johnson

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      Ken, Jeryl, and Ramsey were all out when we made it to the cabins. Probably hunting, or fishing, in Ramsey’s case. Mom was coming from the animal pens, with a feed bucket for Hector, Helen, and Stankbutt in her arms. She took one look at the man and his dog and her body went stiff, her face as blank as I’d ever seen. She was wearing her brown Carhartts, black gloves, and heavy blue jacket with the fake fur lining. Her hood was pulled up, and her freckled cheeks were red.

      “Lynn,” she said. The word froze in the air. I once saw a video of a woman tossing scalding-hot coffee out of her window in winter in northern Alaska. Minus-whatever temperatures. As the liquid hit the air, it puffed into white mist. The sound of my name on Mom’s lips was something like that. Lynn—puff.

      “Mom, this is Jax. Found him by the river. Told him that we could spare a bite to eat.”

      There was panic in her eyes as she turned to our cabin and rushed through the door, not bothering to close it behind her.

      “Mom?”

      I looked back at Jax. He didn’t look surprised.

      “Maybe I should go,” he said. “Don’t want to upset anyone.”

      Then Mom came bursting through the wooden door, shotgun in hand, pointing at Jax. Jax raised his hands.

      “Mom!”

      “You sick? Any fever, sniffles, cough?” Mom asked.

      “Mom, he’s fine,” I said at the same time that Jax said, “No, ma’am.”

      “Any weapons on you?”

      He shook his head. “Had a bow. It broke when I took a spill in the snow a few days ago.”

      “What do you do for food?”

      “My knife.” He pointed to his belt, where a knife—nearly a foot long from blade to hilt—hung in a leather sheath. A good, healthy knife, for skinning and for killing.

      “Mom, put the gun down.” She didn’t move an inch. Her gaze was trained on him. I saw her finger hovering over the trigger. She was ready to kill the man, the quiet librarian in her long gone, fire in her eyes.

      “You hunt with just a knife?” Mom asked.

      Jax shook his head. “Not well. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have taken your offer for food.”

      “Not my offer.” She adjusted the gun against her shoulder.

      “Mom, what the hell?” I said.

      She glanced at me for half a heartbeat. “This was a stupid, stupid move, Gwendolynn.”

      Mom’s boots ground the snow beneath her feet as she backed up a few paces. Wolf was taking a piss on the corner of our cabin.

      “Go inside,” Mom said, gesturing with the barrel of the gun toward the door. “Dog stays out here.”

      “Dog does what he wants,” Jax said, lowering his hands. I don’t think he meant to sound challenging. I think he was just telling it like it was. But it didn’t do him any favors with Mom.

      “As long as what he wants isn’t to come inside.” She looked to the animal shed. “He gonna bug my animals?”

      Jax shrugged. “Don’t think so.”

      It was then that I realized that Jax wasn’t afraid. Not in the least. You learn how to spot fear when you hunt. You can see it in an animal’s posture, in their ears, the tensing of their muscles. You know when they’re about to bolt. Jax seemed completely relaxed, tired even.

      “Get in,” Mom said. It was a command.

      Jax obeyed. Slowly.