milk. He wants bottled water. Tomorrow, he fears, will bring a hangover. Maybe next time he shouldn’t drink so much on the plane, but then again he thought that the last time he flew. In one refrigerator, on a shelf beneath jugs of water, white cartons of live bait, each labeled by hand, are stacked like bricks of snow. Nightcrawlers, crickets, maggots, and sand fleas. He closes the door, empty handed, repulsed by the proximity of beverage and bait.
At the checkout counter, a security camera records the cashier flirting with Brendan. She preens her hair, bats her eyes, covers her mouth to laugh. Brendan, a pack of cigarettes in one hand, a maple-frosted donut in the other, seems to enjoy the attention.
“Andre, buddy,” Brendan says. “Try these donuts. They’re a little piece of . . . what did you say?”
“Piece of wonderful.” The cashier glows. “Where y’all from?”
“What makes you think we’re not from here?” Brendan radiates a confidence and cheerfulness, both of which irritate Andre.
“Your friend here, his suit’s too nice.” She points toward Andre, then lets her eyes drift back to Brendan. “And you, you don’t look like folks around here. I’d remember you.”
“We’re just passing through.” Andre picks a postcard—Carthage County, a Sportsman’s Paradise. “Do you have stamps?”
“My uncle owns a hunting lodge, if you’re interested.” She tugs her hair. “Five hundred acres. Private land. It’s very luxurious. Very classy. Great price.”
“Stamps?” Andre says.
“Sold out.” She tears a napkin, finds a purple pen. “Here’s my uncle’s number. And here’s mine too. Just in case.”
She scribbles digits in sparkling ink, slips the napkin into Brendan’s palm.
“We gotta go.” Andre plunks down a dollar, catches Brendan’s eye. “Now.”
A mustached man, sporting fatigues and a safety vest, stands outside the entrance and holds open the door. Andre thanks the hunter, finds himself beside the man’s idling pickup, a sleeping hound in its cab, a kill in its bed. Andre doesn’t know the difference between a wolf and a coyote—one is larger, he assumes—but this creature, no matter its size, is impaled by two feathered arrows, one beneath the throat, the other between the ribs. In thirty-five years, Andre’s never seen dead wildlife. Not really. Not up close. In Washington, he’s seen his share of belly-up pigeons, feral cats stiffer than a prison cot. Once, in Northeast, he witnessed a paddy wagon flatten a corner girl’s iguana. But here, inches away, this creature looks peaceful, silver fur soaking up its own black blood.
“Isn’t that gorgeous?” Brendan says. “How big is she?”
A bolt of irritation strikes Andre. Is Brendan really starting yet another conversation with yet another stranger? Now? An hour past midnight?
“Twenty-eight pounds,” the hunter says. “Took an hour to track her.”
Andre wonders what the hunter means. Track her? Did an hour pass between the first arrow and the second, or did an hour pass between spotting and killing the prey? He wants to ask for how long this poor creature suffered, but he bites his tongue. Because even if it weren’t the middle of the night, and even if Andre weren’t trying to keep a low profile, and even if the airline scotch weren’t wearing off, even then, this animal would still be dead, a fact that he’s powerless to change.
“What kind of wolf is this?” Brendan asks.
“It’s a coyote, actually.” The hunter runs his hand along the spine of his prey. “We got a huge coyote problem here. Damn beasts almost ruined the turkey stock last year. If y’all are looking for guides . . .”
“We’re just passing through.” Andre tugs Brendan’s sleeve. “We should be going.”
Andre retraces his steps, passing the swings and picnic tables and fire hydrant. Fifteen minutes he’s been in Carthage, and already he hates this place.
“Everyone here’s so nice.” Brendan starts the engine, glances at Andre. “Something wrong?”
“We’re not candidates. We don’t shake hands. We don’t kiss babies. We work best when no one knows . . .” Andre realizes that he’s tired, that he’s had a terrible day. He doesn’t want to whip the kid with his frustration. “Listen, this is a small community. Twenty-eight thousand people. You never know who’s paying attention. For all we know, that guy, or the gal working the register—”
“I didn’t tell them anything.”
“Do you know who opposes the gold mines? Everyone. Hunters and hunting lodges will hate the idea of losing a thousand acres of public hunting land. The sport fishermen won’t appreciate the runoff. That’s to say nothing of terrified parents who fear millions of gallons