“I’ve always had them. I’m thinking of a Chessie I could use sea-duck hunting. It would be good for the kids to have a dog again.” He sipped some rum. “You need to find that wolf, Mike. He’s depending on you.”

“I know.”

Later, as I was bundling up to limp the mile home—the exercise would hurt, but I wanted to keep my joints loose—Billy said, “Are you ever going to get around to decorating your house for Christmas?”

“It’s too late for that,” I said. “Besides, it’s only going to be me there tomorrow.”

“No Dani?”

“No Dani.”

The house was dark and cold when I got home. I couldn’t sleep.

Now I carry a frozen deer haunch down to the river.

Since the morning of the 23rd, I have been putting out food on both sides of the river: venison quarters, hog’s heads, beef bones red with marrow. My offerings have been greatly appreciated by the resident coyotes, foxes, eagles, and especially the omnipresent crows. The black birds watch me from the pines while I search in vain for wolf prints, waiting to swoop down the moment I leave.

I trudge on snowshoes up and down the banks and even across the channel to the island where I ambushed Tori. I make a pilgrimage to the ice fishing shack where I regained my life, then almost lost it again.

The snow is a map of the past. I see where a flock of turkeys crossed after the storm, followed by a bobcat. Later, shrews tunneled beneath the surface. Everywhere are the tiny, busy feet of mice, always moving from cover to cover.

But I find no trace of the wolf.

The day is short and passes quickly. As the sun sets, the western sky glows with colors so beautiful I feel a lump form in my throat: butter yellow, blush red, and a streak of salmon orange that you only see in winter. Against this radiant backdrop, the crows begin to gather and move in ragged clouds to their roost.

I nearly fail to notice the raven. He is bigger than his cousins, with a ruffed throat and a wedge-shaped tail, and he beats his wings in a rowing motion. This one is strangely quiet for his kind.

Ravens and wolves have evolved to have a symbiotic relationship. The birds alert the canines to injured animals or carcasses not yet scavenged. Then they wait until the wolves make their kills or finish their meals. The bills of ravens are not sharp enough to open the thick skins of deer and moose, and so they rely on their furry partners to do the butchering.

As I have said, I try not to locate signs and omens in the natural world, but the unexpected appearance of the raven intrigues me—as a naturalist.