They maneuvered back through the old growth forest, the hemlocks and white pine rising to formidable heights, shafts of light cutting through where it could. Buzz’s face had taken a bad color, but they moved on, determined. They reached the base of the first mountain and worked up, zigzagging along the granite. When they crested the mountain a sea of stumps spread out below them, the horizon filled with flame and smoke. They struggled their way down and laid Buzz in the bed of the truck. Aaron took to his side, applying pressure to the wound.

“Hang in there,” he said. “These woods aren’t done with you yet.”

A year later, a lone trapper told the patrons of a popular watering hole he heard four hounds barking on that first night, and one hound on the fourth.

Wrigley Field – Eight Months Ago

WRIGLEY FIELD – EIGHT MONTHS AGO

Big John Kearns coughed into his hand. Matt watched to make sure there was no blood. A woman sitting next to his father stared, and Matt stared back. His father adjusted his Cubs hat and returned his gaze to the game. A pair of seagulls glided over the field and landed in the empty upper deck, searching for scraps.

Eric Johnson, the Cubs shortstop, was up to bat. No one was on base. The Cardinals pitcher, a lanky flamethrower, reared back. The baseball popped into the catcher’s mitt and the ump signaled strike three.

The scent of warm pretzel dough and stale beer wafted down to them from the concourse. The wind blew out to center field, rippling the series of flags behind the bleachers.

His father coughed again and Matt cringed.

“The damn Cubs,” his father said. “Not sure why I wanted to do this.”

Matt turned to him. “It’s the Cubs, dad. The important thing is that we got to do this.”

Going to one last Cubs game was his father’s wish. He’d chosen them among a myriad of activities in what was shaping up to be a losing fight against lung cancer.

“These guys can’t even hit the baseball,” his father said. “Don’t they have the highest payroll in the league?”

Matt laughed and patted his father on the back.

“Come on now, you don’t have to get all sentimental,” his father said. “Just cause I’m dying is no reason to slather me with affection.”

“You’re not dying,” Matt said, knowing full well this would be their last Cubs game.

“Well that’s good to know,” his father said sarcastically.

Matt smiled. His old man was still a smart ass, even now. Big John Kearns, hiker of the U.P. wilds, former smoker of Marlboro Reds. Big John Kerns, soon to be six feet under. The smile turned to a frown.