He ate a hurried breakfast at the Formica table and dug out the front door again. Then he bundled his coat and scarf around his neck and clambered up through the burrow onto the high surface of the new snow, the snowshoes clutched in his gloved hands. Perhaps two feet of the edge of the trailer were still visible, the rest buried in the drift. He sat at the top of the ramp that led down to the trailer’s door and strapped the snowshoes onto his boots and then stood, blowing steam before turning downhill into the birches, his head lowered, teeth clenched and eyes squinting into the wind. Already his mustache and beard were caked with ice and he knew that the office below would be dark and cold, that it would take a full hour or more just to get the temperature above fifty degrees. Everything so much more difficult without electricity. He had about fifty gallons of gasoline in the equipment shed and had been running the generator to get power to the heaters inside the enclosures but fifty gallons was not much and he would need to get to town soon to resupply.
The snow completely unbroken. No sign of animals anywhere. No birds nor deer nor elk. No track. Nothing. As if, in the face of the storm, the animals had simply fled out across the mountains somewhere. Or as if he had already shifted out into whatever world lay beyond.
He spent most of the day trying to get the snowmobile to run, pausing only briefly to heat up a frozen burrito for lunch. His uncle had purchased the machine new soon after Bill had arrived at the rescue twelve years ago and it had served him well in the intervening years, but now when he pulled at the cord it simply would not start. He removed the fuel lines and the filter and carburetor and then reassembled the machine and then pulled and pulled and pulled at the cord.
When he reentered the office, the snowmobile still did not run but his hands had gone numb from the cold and his patience was finished. The phone was already ringing as he came through the door.
North Idaho Wildlife Rescue, he said into the handset.
Don’t hang up, man, Rick said. His voice was calm. Quiet. And Bill did not hang up. Did not even breathe. I just want to talk for a minute. That’s all. Can we just do that?
I thought you were gone.
No, Rick said, I’m still here.
He could feel the handset in his grip. Cold plastic. I don’t have what you want.
Can we just talk? Just for a little while?
Leave me alone, Bill said.
I just want to talk for a minute, goddammit, Rick said, an edge in his voice now, and when Bill did not respond he said, more calmly, Let’s say you and me grab a beer.
Grab a beer? Are you serious?
Yeah, I’m serious. You owe me that much, Rick said.
Not after you went and talked to Jude. That’s crossing the line and you know it.
What line is that? I’m just trying to get your goddamn attention. You make it pretty near impossible. What else was I supposed to do?
You’re supposed to go back to Nevada.
I just want to talk. We’ve been friends for a long time. Don’t you owe me that much?
The drawing Bill had made as a child hung on the wall in its cheap wooden frame, faded with age but still recognizable as a bear, the animal’s head much larger than it was in life, its eyes blue, and underneath it, in red crayon or marker: MAJER. He could not imagine being the child who had made such a drawing, and yet there was the proof. He thought of Jude. Of the boy’s drawing of the wolf.
Twelve years, Nat, Rick said. Twelve years I’ve been locked up.
Shit, Bill said. He looked across the room to where the heater hissed a constant stream of kerosene-heated air into the room. All right, he said at last. All right. He already regretted saying the words.
AN HOUR later he entered the Northwoods Tavern to find the bar well attended despite the storm, a dozen or more patrons laughing and drinking and carrying on under the illumination of the same neon lights that burned ceaselessly in apparent disregard of the blizzard. Across the room, Rick sat at a table near a dim frosted window, a bottle in front of him. He looked at Bill as he came through the door, the expression on his face indicating no emotion at all, not even recognition, as if glancing up at something inanimate: a stone, a tree, a stick.
Bill had spent the hour between Rick’s phone call and their meeting working on the snowmobile and jerking repeatedly at the pull cord, all the while snowflakes filtering in through the open door of the equipment shed and his heart riding in his throat. He adjusted the choke and pumped the gas and then pulled and pulled and pulled and at last, to his relief and surprise, the machine caught and warmed up enough that it would idle without throttle.
He had loaded it into the back of the truck, driving the machine up the metal ramps and tying it to the bed so it would not slide while he drove. The rifle remained under the seat in the zippered case with the dart gun. He did not know what he would do with such a weapon but he had held it across his lap for a moment before returning it to the space under the seat and exiting the truck.
At the bar he ordered a beer and the bartender told him he was mixing up some hot toddies and then asked if he wanted one.
I’m not even sure I’ll be here long enough to finish the beer, Bill said in response.
The bartender nodded and handed him a bottle and Bill crossed the room to where Rick sat, staring at him dolefully as Bill took the chair across from him at the table. Here I am, he said.
Here you are, Rick said. Fat Nat with a beard.
Rick’s coat was unzipped and Bill could see the edge of a tattoo at his throat. You got tatted up in prison, he said.
Rick laughed, a short harsh scoff. Yeah, he said, as if it were obvious to all.
You been back to BM?
Why would I go back there?
I don’t know, Bill said.
You?
Not for a long time.
Rick lifted his bottle but did not drink from it. Battle fucking Mountain. What a shithole, Rick said. You know, when I first showed up there, you told me your dad was in the CIA. Do you remember that?
I didn’t say that.
Oh yeah you did, Rick said. Every fucking thing that came out of your mouth was a lie, right from go. Now your whole life is a lie.
What’d you want to talk to me about, Rick?
He shook his head. I’ve been up there to your little zoo, he said. I’ve seen all those animals in their cages. You’ve got yourself a little prison up there.
I’m gonna ask you this again and then I’m gonna leave. What do you want?
I want to know what you get out of that.
Out of what?
Out of turning your back on your people and coming up here to run a fucking zoo. Because I’ve been thinking about it for a long time and it doesn’t make any sense. I just can’t figure you out.
Rick’s skin looked both pale and gray simultaneously, as if he had grown old too quickly, his features carved into a thin membrane of flesh embossed upon a network of sinew.
There’s nothing to figure out, Bill said. They need someone to take care of them. So that’s what I do.
You let me rot in prison and let my mom die and turned your back on everything because you decided to take care of some fucked-up animals out in the middle of nowhere?
I made a life for myself.
Yeah yeah, Rick said, you’ve said that before.
Then I guess we’re done, Bill said.
He started to rise but then Rick leaned back in his chair, the beer in his hand. I think you’d better sit and listen to me so you know what’s coming next, he said.