WWJD—What Would Jerri Do? He smiled grimly at the familiar joke, referenced many times during the years of his marriage. At first it had been lighthearted, but more recently he’d said it with real bitterness. His wife really did feel as if her word was law, and that was the problem as far as he was concerned. Being tied down didn’t suit him. He was a man, and men needed their freedom.

Jerri, he decided, would leave the guy to die. It’s his own damn fault for going out here in the first place, she’d say. If there’s an angry bear on the loose, we need to find someplace else to go. So Pete decided to stay.

He looked for any more marks, but there was nothing. Still, the general direction of the prints had been towards the far side of the river, so he headed in that direction, holding his rifle tightly in both hands. His entire body was tingling, and he felt more alive than he had in months. This was why he’d come out here in the first place, to find his balance again and remember what he used to be like, before life had gotten in the way.

When he reached the far bank, he walked up and down the drifts, looking for more prints or any other sign that something had passed through. But he saw nothing. Finally, he found a place where the snow was not as deep and climbed up to the tree line. The woods were thicker here, and he stood in silence for a long moment, then slung his gun and pack to the ground and took a drink from his water bottle.

That was when he saw a glimpse of blue through the trees.

Pete picked up his gun again and walked in that direction, ducking under the pine branches and pushing others aside, losing sight of what he’d seen for a moment before finding it again. The blue thing, whatever it was, did not move. As he got closer, he saw that it was a tarp, and something big was rolled up inside of it. The tarp sat under one of the largest pine trees in the general vicinity, and the snow around it was swept clean.

He scanned the area. Nothing moved. He reached down with trembling fingers and pulled down one edge. The snarling, gore-smeared face of a black bear leered back at him.

The creature’s eyes had been dug out, leaving bloody sockets.

Jesus Christ, Pete thought. Who the hell would do that? And what sort of man would be strong enough to pull that kind of bulk across two hundred feet of ice, up the snowcovered riverbank and through fifty feet of woods?