“No bear, hon,” he said. “Or at least if there was a bear, he or she didn’t have to go potty.”

He paused when he saw four gouge marks on the wooden railing. Had they always been there? He’d spent very little time on the front porch. They looked like claw marks, or they could just as easily have been saw marks if someone had tried to do a little handiwork, using the porch rail to rest something against.

Maybe it was Kate’s bear. It didn’t have to poop, but it left its mark anyway.

Since there was no way for him to be sure, he was not going to tell her and get her all riled up. Knowing Kate, she’d make him stop running for fear of him being mauled or eaten by Gentle Ben. Andrew needed to run more than Kate needed to wonder if there were actually bears around.

“You feel better now?” he said to her.

“Yes. Much. Run free. I’ll see you when you get back.”

“You have no choice.”

No driveway for him today. The sun was out and the path was calling. It was easier going now, muscle memory helping him to avoid some of the worst dips and obstacles in his way.

In fact, he was able to do his usual reckless-abandon scurry, knees rising so high with each stride, they nearly touched his pumping elbows. It only took a few minutes to get his heart rate in full gallop, sweat starting to pour down the sides of his face and small of his back. The ground was still wet, squishing under his feet, mud flecking his pants.

For once, he was running out of habit rather than anger. The beer last night had really helped to settle him down, dulling all the sharp edges that usually troubled his days and nights.

His shoulder nearly clipped a tree. Spinning away, he stepped into a clump of wiry brush. It took some effort to extricate his legs.

Good thing Kate made me wear long pants.

Lungs burning, he checked his watch. He’d been running for twenty minutes.

A hole had ripped open in his pants leg. No matter, he was done running for the day. His head felt clearer, the aches in his bones replaced by the hum of endorphins.

Walking back to the cottage, he decided he’d stop in town and get more beer. Maybe he’d even buy a bottle of Dewar’s. His dad had been a connoisseur of cheap whisky. Andrew always thought his father looked so grown up, so cool, so in command of all he surveyed, when he had a highball glass of the amber whisky in his hand. He’d tried Dewar’s himself several times but couldn’t get over the burn. His own tastes were on the pricier, smoother side.