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tools that included a butcher handsaw, a rack of black-handled knives, and a white metal cabinet. A meat hook was suspended from an overhead beam, and two rolls of white butcher paper leaned against the cabinet. Near the double doors at the far end of the room was a large upright freezer.
    The double doors were familiar. Osborne would hang the buck or doe that he had shot from the large hooks on the waiting wooden rack outside those doors, and knock to let Kaye know it was there. They had an annual ritual: the door would open and Kaye, clad in a bloody apron, would wave, saying, “I’ll put your tag on it, Dr. Osborne. Never fear.”
    Days later a box of venison ground with pork, cut into chops or roasts, all wrapped in white butcher paper, would appear at his back door, each package with its contents marked and dated. Kaye was such an expert at dressing a deer, not to mention making sure you got
your
deer back, that hunters called months before the season opened to be sure they were on her list.
    “Welcome to my domain,” said Kaye, her good humor restored, as she shuffled toward the table with the sewing machine. She pointed at the table. “Nice, isn’t it? I found it at a flea market a few years ago and Butch Stevens fixed it up for me. Makes it so easy to cut materials.”
    Behind the sewing table was open shelving filled with rolls of fabric. Osborne could see plastic and vinyl, and materials likely used for upholstery. Thinking of his chewed shot bag, he scanned the shelves for leather but didn’t see any.
    “Now, Ray, I don’t have to be at work until noon today, so I’ll get a start on your hat. I’m going to replace the leather across the top and re-anchor your buddy here. Have it for you first thing Monday morning.”
    “Wow, that fast?”
    “That fast. You’re lucky; I have leather just the color we need. Made some chaps for a Harley guy’s girlfriend and had plenty leftover.”
    “Say, Kaye,” said Osborne, “my dog chewed a hole in my best shot bag right where the leather is reinforced—”
    “Bring it on, Dr. O.” She smiled up at him. “That’s an easy fix.”
    “Great, I’ll drop it off later this week. Ray, you ready to get going?” Osborne checked his watch. “I have to get to the grocery store before noon.”
    “Out of here, you two. I got work to do,” said Kaye, herding them back into the house. Just as Osborne reached to open the front door, Ray stopped and turned. A second later, the trill of a spring robin filled the room. Kaye laughed.
    “Wait, you two,” she said. “Open the door and listen.”
    Osborne did as she said, and the two men stepped onto the front stoop. Kaye pushed past them, raised both hands to her face, and let loose with a strange cry. Osborne recognized the howl of a wolf. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. The first time he had ever heard that sound was when he had been hunting grouse alone on a deserted logging lane east of Loon Lake. The wolf had seen him first and was waiting, ears up, lips curled back, teeth bared, staring. Osborne had fired his shotgun into the air, but the animal hadn’t flinched. It just stared.
    Later he would learn the significance of that stare—it was a challenge—but even not knowing that, it was enough for Osborne. He would never forget how fast he had run for his car. As he had fumbled his key in the lock, he heard the howl. A low-pitched long, long howl: a cry for the pack. So piercing, so loud, so unrelenting was Kaye’s howl that it had to carry for miles. Osborne half expected a wolf pack to come roaring at them from the woods behind the old house.
    “My God, Kaye,” said Ray when she dropped her hands. “What on earth was that?”
    “My war cry.”
    As they crossed the front yard toward their vehicles, Osborne stopped Ray to ask in a low tone, “Do you think she’s been drinking?”
    Ray shrugged his shoulders and said, “One thing’s for sure: I wouldn’t want to be Jane Ericsson right