My outfit consisted of a hooded down-filled parka over a commando sweater, over my government-issue ballistic vest, over a merino wool base layer. Beneath my blue jeans (admittedly not a good choice for a day with a forecast high of twenty-five degrees), I wore merino long johns and heavy wool socks. My boots were specially designed by L.L.Bean for use by Maine game wardens in all weather: waterproof, hard-toed, insulated with PrimaLoft, and fashioned with the stickiest lug soles I’d ever worn.

On my belt I wore my badge on a clip and my service weapon, a SIG Sauer P239, in its paddle holster. I’d dropped a couple of magazines in the pockets of my parka almost without thinking. As always, I wore my father’s Vietnam dog tags around my neck and carried the push-button knife Billy had given me.

I figured I would be spending the day in the Jeep and had little need for gear beyond what I carried in the government vehicle.

I leaned against the porch rail. “Maybe she can try bewitching my new neighbor.”

“The lawyer who bought the land across the river? Mr. Purple Polo? I thought he was just a summer complaint.”

It was an impolitic term for a second-home owner. The downside to living in Vacationland was that we year-rounders found ourselves outnumbered during the warmer months—and forced to reckon with the economic carrots and sticks wielded by our fair-weather neighbors.

“He claims no one told him when he bought the place that there was a wolf across the river,” I said. “He and his wife came up for leaf season and heard Shadow howl, and it just about froze their blood. The sheriff explained the situation, but it didn’t satisfy Mr. Purple Polo. He and his wife showed up here last week in their BMW X5 to have a look at the beast and threaten me with a lawsuit.”

Billy scratched his beard, which might have been woven from gold and copper wires. “Shadow’s not a beast. He’s a dog.”

“He’s a wolf dog. Recently living in the wild.”

A brave siskin returned to the feeder and cracked a sunflower seed with his sharp bill.

Billy lowered his voice to keep from scaring off the songbird. “Shadow doesn’t budge when you go inside his pen. He lets you scratch his ears.”

I didn’t mention that every time I reached out to pet the wolf, I wondered if I would draw back a bleeding stump.

“He’s not tame, Billy. Maybe he was once, but he won’t ever be again. I made a commitment to take care of him, no matter what. I heard at the Lincolnville General Store that my neighbors have a history of suing people who irritate them. They know most of us locals can’t afford the cost of hiring attorneys—”