He sighs again and moves to sit closer to me. ‘When I started hunting with Steph, she and her family would use the entire animal. It was always a way of life for them, never a sport, but now she’s gone … I guess …’ He pats the snow down next to him. ‘I don’t know if you know, but hunters actually help conserve animals, giving hundreds of millions of dollars through taxes on equipment, fees, licences and whatnot. Recently, the Department of Fish and Game helped reintroduce wood bison. And Steph told me that hunting in the US really saved species like elk and deer and …’ He stops and looks at the moose. ‘Anyway, it’s a huge responsibility. I try to educate all my clients about conservation and ethics, of course, and I’m extremely careful—I only hunt bulls, never cow moose, because that has too big an effect on the population.’

His words feel like they’re flying over me like leaves in a breeze.

I watch the moose. When I glance over to my dad, I realise he’s doing the same. We are transfixed.

‘How old do you think he is?’ I ask.

‘About eight to ten years.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘The antlers are around five feet … they have a butterfly shape.’

‘Oh.’ I touch them—they feel like bone, or teeth, each enormous, half the size of my body. If I stretched out my arms as wide as they can go, I wouldn’t be able to touch both sides.

The clouds drift, making patterns over the moose’s head. I stroke his long snout softly. I wonder what he’s thinking about. If he’s dreaming or feeling angry at us.

My father takes off his beanie and runs his hand through his hair. I smell apple.

I think of the yoga meditation I used to do with Mum. And how, when she went, I’d wondered if she was practising the special breathing techniques and mind-focusing mantras. She seemed at peace, but that may have been the drugs.

My father takes my other hand in his. ‘I don’t think it’s suffering.’

‘He’s not an it,’ I retort, looking at my father for the first time. ‘Animals aren’t things … just stuff for us to use. Their lives are …’ I stop to think. ‘They are just as meaningful to them as our lives are to us. Don’t you get it?’ I shake my head. ‘Don’t you believe they have souls?’

A shaft of light appears between the clouds and illuminates the moose’s face. And, just then, like a sign from above, his eyes open.

I gasp without meaning to, and my father grips my hand tighter.

The sunlight moves and suddenly the moose’s eyes close.

‘Did you look into his eyes?’ I say. ‘There’s a whole world in there. Just like us. I know there is.’