The Wolves of Winter. Tyrell Johnson

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      He shook his head. “Eh, stupid dog,” he said, rising. The wooden chair grated against the floor.

      Mom lifted the shotgun to her cheek. “What’re you doing?”

      Jax picked up the meat. He didn’t say anything else. He walked to the door, opened it, and tossed the hunk of meat outside. Before he closed the door, I saw Wolf dive onto the scrap.

      “You feed them once,” Jax said, “and suddenly they’re your responsibility.”

      “Not how it works in my house,” Mom said.

      Jax laughed, a warm sound but with a hint of sadness in it. “Don’t worry about me, ma’am. I’ll be on my way. As long as you aren’t going to shoot me in the back.”

      “Can’t make any promises.”

      “Thank you for the food,” Jax said, then turned to me. “Nice to meet you, Gwen.”

      “Lynn,” I said.

      He stepped toward the door. Mom aimed.

      “Wait,” I said. “Mom, Jeryl will want to meet him.”

      “Ha. Jeryl will be annoyed we let a stranger in while he was out,” she replied.

      “He’s the first person we’ve seen in years. Ever, unless you count Conrad. Jeryl will want to trade news, hear his story.” Long pause. Mom’s hands dipped, the barrel of the gun dropping ever so slightly. Her arm was getting tired. She eyed Jax with suspicion. Something else in her eyes too. I decided not to ask. “You know I’m right,” I said.

      Mom lowered the gun, spun a chair around, and straddled it. She rested the barrel on the back of the chair, pointing it at Jax.

      “Sit,” she said.

      “The gun isn’t necessary, ma’am.”

      “Sit.”

      He sat.

      “You’re limping. Why?”

      Jax’s head bowed slightly. “I took a bad spill when I broke my bow.”

      “Wounded?”

      “A scratch.”

      “You did this a few days ago?”

      “About. Days kinda blend.”

      Mom bit the inside of her cheek. “Let me see.”

      “It’s fine. It’ll heal.”

      “Let me see.” She adjusted the rifle on the chair.

      “What’re you gonna do? Kill him if he doesn’t show you?” I asked.

      “Just let me see,” she repeated.

      Jax stood, limped around the table, and lifted his left pant leg. On the side of his calf was a gash, two inches long. It was angry red and raw.

      “Trust me,” he said. “It’ll heal.”

      “Hurt bad?” Mom asked.

      “Not really.”

      Mom gave him a look.

      “Like a bitch,” he said.

      I sat, holding the gun on Jax as he reclined in my cot. I felt like an idiot with the gun on him, but Mom wouldn’t be persuaded. She didn’t trust him for a second. Any minute now, he was going to get the jump on us, rape us, murder us, and chop us into little pieces. Stupid. I aimed the gun at his face while Mom went to gather supplies.

      “Sorry about this,” I said.

      He shook his head. “You have to look after yourself these days.”

      Screw it. I lowered the gun, leaned it against the wall.

      Mom glared at me as she came up the steps, but she didn’t say anything. She had her bottle of vodka, some bandages, and a steak knife. “I’ve never been the best at this,” she said.

      “You don’t have to do this, ma’am.”

      “Shut it.” Mom lifted a hand, hesitated, then put it on Jax’s calf. She poured out a good splash of vodka on the cut, then dabbed it with a wet cloth. Jax grunted and twitched.

      “We need to cut the dead tissue off.”

      “No, it’s fine. It’s small,” Jax said.

      “So was David.”

      “David?” He eyed her like she was a crazy person.

      “David and Goliath. He was small, but he brought down a giant.”

      “My leg isn’t David.”

      “And you’re not a giant.”

      Mom poured a dab of the liquor onto the steak knife she’d brought and started cutting into the bad flesh. Jax closed his eyes. He didn’t squirm or call out. Afterward, the wound looked more red and raw and bigger than it had when Mom first started at it. Maybe she’d made it worse. She’d cleaned up a few of our cuts and scrapes over the years. She even gave Ken a few stitches with fishing wire after he fell down a ravine. But still, she didn’t really know what the hell she was doing. None of us did.

      Jeryl’s reaction to Jax was much different from Mom’s. It was already late afternoon when he, Ken, and Ramsey came into the cabin. Mom and I were downstairs, tearing up an old blanket to use as a bandage. Mom nodded upstairs to the loft, giving Jeryl a serious look.

      Then they were all crammed on the stairway, staring like a bunch of idiots.

      “Who the hell are you?” Ken asked.

      Jeryl looked from Jax to Mom and back again. Jax sat up in bed, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Jeryl, calm, grabbed a chair and sat next to him.

      Then he started asking questions.

      “What’s your name?”

      “Jax.”

      “You got any weapons on you?”

      “Just a knife.”

      “Where you from?”

      “Montana.”

      “Was it bad there?”

      “Same as everywhere else. Not much left.”

      “You sick?”

      “No.”

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