At the leaning post he gazed out upon the southern valley and the Hurons. The forest of chokecherry, birch, and alder stretched out below him, the occasional balsam fir and red pine puncturing the canopy. Birds flittered from the far off trees as wind rustled the branches. Somewhere down there, a mountain lion still lives, he thought. And maybe it will kill me today.

Matt glanced towards the southern edge of the orchard, at the wall of stunted forest. He thought about going after the shotgun Sanders had dropped. Then he remembered the boundaries. He couldn’t risk it. The last time he went down to the edge, he’d paid. Matt slumped into the grass on his knees.

“This was our spot,” he cried. “This was our place.”

Never in a million years did he think he’d ever die in the orchard. Even when he was a child he knew the place held a special magic for him.

A twig snapped in the wall of trees and a ghost emerged.

The mountain lion.

It gazed upon him as if sizing him up for a morning snack. In all his many outdoor trips, Matt had never experienced an animal look at him like he was dinner.

“Come on,” he mumbled to the lion. “Do it. I want you to.”

The mountain lion sniffed the air and turned back into the vegetation. A last flick of black-tipped tail was swallowed by alder.

Matt limped down to the place where Sanders had massacred the offspring. Wind rattled the leaves at the wall of forest and he wanted to run, but then thought better. His breath was heavy and erratic. He thought he felt his heart skip out of rhythm, and remembered the doctors had a name for it: atrial fibrillation. Dizziness seized him and the world darkened, then returned. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he wiped it away with an arm made of grinding glass.

Matt reached into the stained grass, feeling for the dead creatures. His hands came across something like pig skin, smooth but with occasional hairs. His hand worked over the object, feeling something that may have been deepset wrinkles like the back of a fat man’s head. His fingers groped dozens of tiny, swollen holes, the work of Sanders’ copper shot. Finally he felt a limb of sorts and ran his hand along it. The piggish skin segued into a smooth shell-type surface, like what a crab would have. Matt held the limb where it met the piggish body, then sawed through the meat. Pulling with his left hand, the limb separated in a soggy squish. Matt put the knife back in his pocket and ran both hands to the end of the limb. So, this was what made the clicking sounds, he thought. He returned to the leaning post with his prize, checking behind him every few steps for the mountain lion.

Nothing.