He made it out of the boneyard and the coyotes faded back. If they hadn’t fed recently, they’d be all around him. He supposed he should feel grateful for the carcass. But he couldn’t be. Not until he saw it. He needed a good stick, something to fend them off with, just for a moment.

He found himself at the line of crosses. They were wired to old fenceposts. Peter wasn’t particularly religious, but he still felt the power of their ancient symbology. He raised his eyes and gave a silent apology to whoever might be looking down at him, then chose one made of crooked branches and gave it a tug. It was sturdier than it looked. He leaned on the crossbar. It was wired in place, too. For the love of God. He moved down the row until he found a cross that had fallen to the ground. He stomped on it. The wood broke with a crack. He froze for a long moment, listening. Nothing.

He bent and picked up the branch, three feet long and as thick as his wrist. A nice knot on one end. Solid enough to convince those coyotes that he’d be a painful meal to catch.

He walked downslope again, rifle slung behind him, blood surging in his veins, the club hanging down like an extension of his arm. The coyotes had returned to the carcass. They weren’t sure what to make of him now that he wasn’t behaving like prey. So they stood and bared their teeth, letting him know they were prepared to defend their food.

One moved to face him, hackles raised, growling. It was almost certainly a male, larger than Cupcake, well fed and wilder in some vast, undefinable way. Peter stepped toward it, club raised, adrenaline battling against fear.

Like many rural Wisconsin kids, he’d been a hunter in his teens, although he gave it up after the war. He wasn’t looking to hurt these animals, either, but one dog bite today was plenty. He needed to see what they were feeding on. What happened next was up to the coyotes.

He swung the club, hazing the beast back. A second coyote joined it, then two more. Together, they seemed less concerned about the stick and more pissed off about Peter invading their dining room. They spread out, surrounding him for more vectors of attack. They’d made their living at this for countless millennia. Things were going to get ugly fast. He stepped closer to the ravaged carcass, keeping the club moving, until he got a good look.

Amid the black blood and torn flesh, he saw fur. He saw hooves.

It wasn’t her.

He backpedaled away from the dead deer. The coyotes watched for a moment, then went back to their meal.

Despite how ranchers and hunters felt about large predators, Peter knew they rarely killed for pleasure. Most predators were good for the environment, culling the sick and weak, only taking what they needed to survive. They almost never attacked people.