And there was a kind of quiet loud sound. Like, lots of noise, on account of there being lots of people there, but all kind of muffled and peaceful.

And most of the people were those Japanese. How come’s they got to be in places like that, thought Wilber, and folks like him didn’t? They had dark skin too, didn’t they? It wasn’t fair. They’d be there now. Drinking and talking in that muffled way, maybe looking out one of those tiny little windows all the way back to where he was. Wilber thought they probably weren’t looking at all, and if they were it would be over his head, at the Wolf River snaking its way to the sea. He pulled his parka tighter against the flurries of wind that blew the snow right into his face and picked up his pace.

The sidewalk was lined with big trees here. The houses and shacks hid behind them like the trees were the reason for the street and the houses were expendable. Such big trees.

A branch shivered suddenly above him and shook some snow down on his head as he passed beneath it. He looked up nervously, but there was no more movement. He pressed on, licking his dry lips and thinking of how warm the bar would be in the Keystone Hotel, and how cold the beer.

The branches above his head danced again, with the weight of something moving through them. This time the snow fell like a waterfall. Something heavy. Wilber made a whimper. Up ahead there was a lane between the houses. It went down to the river, away from these big pines. He started to run. The breath swirled from him in clouds as his thin legs staggered to keep up with his body as it leaned forward into the snow and wind. He gained the lane and headed down it as the branches of the tree at the entrance bent and dipped. There were two men in the lane. One, a kid of about twenty in a big four-wheel-drive car with the engine running and skis on the rack, the man, in work overalls, a plaid jacket and a baseball cap leaning on the open driver’s window talking to him. They looked up at this haggard Indian running towards them, gasping and clutching his parka round the neck like a Victorian mining widow.

They looked at each other and laughed: he was being pursued by a small black-and-white domestic cat.

Wilber wasn’t looking behind him, he was just running. Stumbling and slipping, but running as fast as he could. The cat bounded daintily behind him, effortlessly keeping pace. Wilber fell over the hood of the kid’s car, gasping for breath.

‘Gotta help me. It be comin’ after me again.’ He pointed behind him, at the cat that was nearly there.