Thereās a thick layer of freshly fallen snow on the ground, and ice gleams on leafless branches. Armin trudges through the woods carefully, mindful of snow drifts that might look deceptively shallow, and tries to avoid rubbing at his running nose. Despite the bone-deep cold thatās wormed its way between his layers and layers of clothing, heās happy, at home on this remote patch of land overseen by the nearby research institute.
From Seattle to St. Paul, thatās how far Arminās come in his studies, and as a current grad student, he feels very lucky to have landed such a great opportunity. Heās been working side by side with big names in ecology, and he's part of two major projects, which is about as many as he can balance while completing the rest of his semester coursework through distance education.
Sure, he might be sleeping less, but that doesnāt matter. Heās finally getting to study what heās been interested in since his early days as an undergrad: human-wildlife interaction and its associated effects. Since he began work at the research center, heās had close encounters with all kinds of creatures, from bears to beavers to a dozen birds of prey, all experiences that he treasures more than any knowledge gleaned from a textbook.
But heās yet to see the one mammal that heās actually there to study. His research is built around the areaās wolf population and aims to analyze how hunting and other human interventions could disrupt natural trends in population growth and decline. Itās an ambitious topic, but he wonāt be working on it alone.
Standing knee-deep in snow, listening to the peaceful quiet of the forest, he feels very optimistic. Heās out on a day with the coldest weather heās experienced since moving to Minnesota, tiny shivers wracking his body, but heās got an exuberant smile on his face, and he canāt even bring himself to be annoyed when he has to pull off a glove with his teeth to update his GPS coordinates on his tablet.
But his cheerful work is interrupted when a gunshot tears through the silence, echoing and upsetting a flock of birds nestled in the tree above him. Armin freezes in his tracks, heart pounding.
No hunting is allowed on this land. He knows this with certainty, but he still canāt make himself move.
Another gunshot. And another. A fourth, this time punctuated by a feral snarling that breaks off into an unnatural distressed scream that sounds disturbingly human. This spurs him into action, and he scrambles, nearly trips over a fallen tree branch and narrowly avoids smashing his face into the scratched up bark of a pine tree. He pauses, panting visible puffs of air, and touches the very tips of his gloved hand to the bark; it comes away tinged with blood and stuck with splinters blown off by a shotgun shell.
His eyes search the underbrush, pick out the tracks of human boots, and as he runs into another clearing, he finds himself following a trail of blood, bright red against the snow. It hits him that he's looking for a large mammal, injured and scared and dangerous.
But who can he call? No one from the center will get out here in time, but his car isn't too far; he could help, somehow. Itās even begun snowing now, the sky darkening to a murky gray as snowflakes spiral down, the icy air burning in his throat.
He nearly misses it in his haste, but he quickly backtracks and when he clears a copse of trees, he sees it, horror gripping his heart.
A beautiful white wolf, staining the snow it lay on with blood.
āOh my god,ā he breathes as he approaches cautiously, arms outstretched. āItās okay,ā he says in a raised voice, trying to sound firm. āItās going to be okay.ā Or at least he'll do what he can.
