‘The Lodge will pick it up—him up—’ Adam corrects himself, ‘on their trailer, process him and donate the meat to one of the charities in town who’ll distribute it to people in need, the elderly, homeless folk … That’s what we often do with meat not taken home by the hunters. They appreciate it and make it into stews, chillis, meatballs, stuff like that.’

The fact that I’m not grossed out by the thought of moose meatballs surprises me. But it may be on the top-ten list of the strangest things I’ve ever heard.

It seems like neither of us feels like talking anymore, both lost in our own thoughts. Not mad, exactly—I think we’re just sad, bummed. This day has sucked beyond measure, for both of us in different ways. My father puts on the radio, not music this time, a talkback show. His hands grip the steering wheel and he rubs it with his thumb.

When we get back home, Jaxon following close behind, I say hi to my grandparents and excuse myself to run my snowpants and thermals under hot water, scouring out all traces of blood. Then I scrub myself clean in the shower and curl into bed with a sandwich. For the rest of the day, I do nothing but read and journal, my grandmother occasionally popping her head in to see if I’m okay. I also watch Mum’s video, but only once, just to relax me.

The next morning, I drag myself out of bed and join Jaxon and Adam to go the police station—I want to support Jaxon.

When we arrive, I follow him and my father to the reception desk.

Adam says he wants to speak to an officer about Doug’s charges, and we’re told to sit and wait. I leave my phone in my pocket—for once—and pick up an old magazine, Horse and Style, and mindlessly flip through it.

Jaxon’s head is in his hands and his foot is tapping fast, like it’s been possessed by a demon. My father scratches his beard, watching the desk.

At last a police officer appears, and Adam and Jaxon follow her. They sit at another desk just outside my view.

I look at the pictures of the plaited horse tails, only able to hear snippets of what they’re saying. My father’s talking mostly.

‘Doug’s wife … not long ago … still grieving.’

When the police officer speaks, I can’t hear her. I debate moving a few seats closer, but that would look awkward, like I’m eavesdropping, which seems to be a common pastime of mine these days.

‘No officer … I know … it’s the second time,’ my father continues. ‘Not regularly … I can vouch for his character.’