Echinococcus was also known as the hydatid worm. A horrendous parasite. He had seen pictures. Scary pictures. An x-ray of a human head with equal parts worm and brain inside the cranium. It had turned his stomach. And it was turning now too. Because he realised he had put his snus in without washing his hands first. He had worn gloves, of course, but taking them off, he had touched them. And he had been the one to carry the hind part. Who knew what might have been caked in those long tufts of fur? He thought about white fettucine, about eggs and cysts. Cuticles lined with invisible ribbons of roe. Horrified by these images, he sank into a squat, dipped his hands in the snow and dug his fingers around. Then he spat out his snus, cleared his throat and spat again.

They wrapped the wolf in the blanket and loaded it into the helicopter. Anders leaned back in his seat and felt the vibrations reverberate through him. His eyelids drooped. It had been a long day and he was terribly tired. How long before he could sleep? Best-case scenario, they would reach the release site by 6 a.m. In bed by nine. Best case.

The moment the skids sunk into the snow, Anders grabbed his rifle bag in one hand and backpack in the other and dashed, at a crouch, through the miniature blizzard stirred up by the helicopter in the dark. He pushed the remote Åsa had given him. The headlights of a large Mitsubishi turned on. He threw his equipment on the back seat and opened the bed cap. The transport crate was inside. A metal box with a steel grate in the front and a sliding hatch with air holes in the back. He placed it on the ground and ran back to the helicopter.

People made way for them as they carried the wolf between them. They put it down in front of the cage. Then all that was left to do was wait.

The temperature had dropped, quickly. Anders had pulled on a hat and was stamping his heels hard in the snow to keep warm. They were on a road in a frozen fox forest, somewhere north of the Kaitum River. They had followed the directions from the snowmobilers, but the venerable male had confounded them for a good long while. While he stood there, trying to come to grips with the geography, a cricket started chirping under his jacket. He pulled out his phone and poked at it with cold fingers.

‘Is the wolf all packed up and ready to go?’

It didn’t exactly sound like a question. More like an accusation. He said he couldn’t answer that; he even said he had no comment. It made him sound like a politician, so he added: I know you’ll be able to see why, Micke.