41: Montana

The wolf is dead by the time I reach it, its eyes already going glassy, its tongue lolling out. The bullet hole is a spot of lichen, spreading. A thin red line runs down from its mouth like a riverbed.

I breathe in, deep. There’s a chill on the mountain air, sweet to the tongue and clear.

I sling my rifle and kneel down, run my fingers through the matted fur. I taste the blood that coats my hand, rust red.

I throw up on the rocks beside the body, then sit down and watch the clouds. The world spins. Is this what it’s supposed to feel like?