‘We can still get him help,’ I say to my father. ‘I’ll bandage him. Jaxon, do you have the bandage? And we’ll get a vet and … and …’ I’m stuttering, tears choking my words. ‘We can save him. He’s scared. Look at him, he’s freaking out.’

It’s not entirely true, as the moose’s eyes have closed and he isn’t moving at all. I feel my father’s gaze on me, and Jaxon is sitting down on the hill, watching the scene like we’re actors in a show.

‘Leave the animal here,’ Adam tells Ralph. ‘I’ll call the Lodge and make arrangements to pick it up on their ATV and process it. We’re not butchering it or packing the meat, Ralph.’

‘I’ll take the antlers then,’ he says.

‘That’s illegal here; you can’t bring the antlers out before the meat.’

‘I’ll take the antlers now, for Christ’s sake, and the Lodge will pick up the rest later,’ Ralph says.

‘Ralph, we’re done for the day, forget about the fee, you can go home.’

He stands up, brushing the snow from his pants, and takes a menacing step towards my father. ‘I’m really pissed, Adam. Leaving with nothing? Your daughter throwing herself in my line of fire? You’ve ruined my trip and your reputation is finished.’ He glares at me and then at the moose. ‘All for this. Wait till the Lodge hears about it.’

He stomps away, snow flying from his feet, his gun clanking against his binoculars, knives and other equipment, huffing up the hill until we can’t hear him anymore.

‘You could have been killed,’ Adam repeats. ‘How could you do that?’

I don’t answer.

Jaxon leaves too, saying he’s going for a walk.

That leaves me, my father and the moose, together in the reddening snow. The moose is alive but barely, his eyes closed and breathing shallow. The forest is quiet except for our inhales and exhales and the occasional shrill bird whistle. The sun has banished all signs of the night, and it’s turning into a warmer day, freezing but less freezing. Clouds brush the sky like watercolours in a painting and fresh powdered snow glistens like diamonds. There’s no wind, no sign of a storm. The surrounding beauty clashes with the ugly reality, like a pretty melody sung out of tune.

I shiver, although I’m not cold, as I kneel and stroke the moose’s fur, thick and coarse. It reminds me of my dog, Bella, sleeping beside me, and my chicken, Chirp. Despite the outward differences, all animals feel and breathe, like us.

‘He can’t be saved, can he?’ I hear myself say.

‘No.’

‘Do you have to shoot him again?’

‘He doesn’t have long now,’ my father says.

I feel the fur run between my fingers. ‘Can we stay with him?’

‘Yes, we’ll stay.’