The goats screamed in response, a terrible keening cry that sounded human.

Leni grabbed the rifle from the rack and went to open the door.

“No!” Mama yelled, yanking her back. “We can’t go out there. They could attack us.”

They shoved the curtains aside and opened the window. Cold blasted them.

A sliver of moonlight shone down on the yard, weak and insubstantial but enough to show them glimmers of movement. Light on silver fur, yellow eyes, fangs. Wolves moving in a pack toward the goat pen.

“Get out of here!” Leni yelled. She pointed her rifle and aimed at something, movement, and fired.

The gunshot was a crack of sound. A wolf yelped, whined.

She shot again and again, heard the bullets thwack into trees, ping on metal.

The screaming and bleating of the goats went on and on.

*   *   *

QUIET.

Leni opened her eyes and found that she was sprawled on the sofa, with Mama beside her.

The fire had gone out.

Shivering, Leni pushed back the pile of woolen and fur blankets and restarted the fire.

“Mama, wake up,” Leni said. They were both wearing layers of clothing, but when they’d finally fallen asleep, they’d been so exhausted they’d forgotten the fire. “We have to check outside.”

Mama sat up. “We’ll go out when there’s light.”

Leni looked at the clock. Six A.M.

Hours later, when dawn finally shed its slow, tentative light across the land, Leni stepped into her white bunny boots and pulled the rifle down from the gun rack by the door, loading it. The closing of the chamber was a loud crack of sound.

“I don’t want to go out there,” Mama said. “And no. You’re not going alone, Annie Oakley.” With a wan smile, she pulled on her boots and put on her parka, flipping the fur-lined hood up. She loaded up a second rifle and stood beside Leni.

Leni opened the door, stepped out onto the snow-covered deck, holding the rifle in front of her.

The world was white on white. Snow falling. Muffled. No sounds.

They moved across the deck, down the steps.

Leni smelled death before she saw it.

Blood streaked the snow by the ruined goat pen. Stanchions and gates had been torn apart, lay broken. There were feces everywhere, in dark piles, mingled with blood and gore and entrails. Trails of gore led into the woods.

Wrecked. All of it. The pens, the chicken yard, the coop. Every animal gone, not even pieces left.

They stared at the destruction until Mama said, “We can’t stay out here. The scent of blood will draw predators.”

Chapter Eleven

ELEVEN