I grow more excited when I realize he is soaring over the beaver lodge where I’d last seen Shadow.

In the purple dusk I tramp up the channel, and it is here that I finally find his tracks.

He must have ventured out of the woods in the vain hope he would find beavers inside the abandoned house. But he lacked the strength to open a hole between the logs, and even if he had, it would have done him no good. Two of his paws were bleeding, probably from ice chunks like broken glass between his toes.

Standing there, in the failing light, I call his name. My voice doesn’t echo. The raven, however, responds with an inscrutable, “Quork!”

The breeze whips up little clouds of powder from the surface of the snow. I listen to the trembling of the dead leaves still attached to the oaks. Brown prayer flags in the wind.

I call again, louder.

Still no response.

I decided to trudge back to my personal vehicle, the International Harvester Scout, to fetch the grocery store turkey. It’s the last item left in the cooler. I plan on placing the frozen bird atop the lodge where, hopefully, Shadow’s sensitive nose will locate its scent on the wind.

But as I limp my way up the boat launch a feeling comes over me. Tempest Dow might have called it a vibration.

I turn slowly, and there he is, fifty feet down the ramp, looking gaunt and ragged. The hairs on his muzzle are white with frost. He shows no sign of aggression; he hasn’t raised the hackles along his neck. But his sulfur eyes are as unknowable as ever.

“Hey, big guy.”

He remains so motionless he might as well be a stuffed exhibit in a diorama at a natural history museum.

“I hate it to break it to you, but you look terrible. I know you’re hungry. You might even be thinking of eating me at the moment. I’d rather you didn’t, but to be honest, it would be a fitting end to the week we’ve both had.”

His tail twitches. A plume rises from his panting mouth into the bitter air.

“I’ve got food for you in the truck. I know turkey’s not your favorite, but it’s better than the mice or whatever you’ve been catching.”

He lowers his head to sniff an odor blowing past.

“I’ll come back with the turkey. If you feel like taking off, I’ll leave it for you. I promise it’s not a trick.”

And with that, I turn slowly and keep walking on scraping snowshoes to my parked truck. I don’t pause or glance over my shoulder. I am sincerely afraid to look in case he’s vanished.