It’s been several months since I last saw anyone. I barely spoke to the guide when he brought me out here. The last meaningful conversation was one year ago. My punishment is self-inflicted, but well deserved.

The snowprints lead to into the trees, unraveling the carefully cultivated layer I’ve made for myself. The anger returns, the fear. I briefly consider hiding inside, but I’ve never been a good liar no matter how much I hate myself. I’m going to follow the tracks.

An ancient Mauser model 98 is the only firearm I’ve allowed myself. Not from the original production run, but pretty damn close. Erik hid the rest of my stash as a favor, without telling me where. Layers of protection that now seem futile and pathetic.

Boots made the tracks, but they could be a smaller man or a larger woman. The powder is too loose to determine the brand. Alread wind is blowing away the trail, so I cease deliberating and make a parallel path.

Half a mile later, I hear fire crackling. I slow my pace, and note the tracks leading to a small clearing. My quarry is a man. Medium build like I suspected, wearing well maintained winter gear. The cursed boots are Cabela’s, well worn yet ready for years more of service. He sits casually on a pine log by the fire. A knife pierces the improvised seat next to him.

“It took you longer than I thought.”

The man has a nasally, midwestern voice. Not quite a Chicago accent but probably from Illinois somewhere.

My bolt-action rifle is not pointed at the man, but in ready position, safety turned off several paces ago.

“I take it you’re not here for deer season.”

The man gives what he must consider to be a smile. His eyes remain colder than January.

“Did you really think you could just come out here and live out your life in quiet solitude? It’s pathetic. If it were up to me, I’d have ended your little vacation permanently. You can’t rehabilitate a hunting dog that won’t hunt.”

“But it’s not up to you, is it? I don’t know you, but I know where you stand. A lackey. Not good enough to call your own shots, country boy.”

The attempt at a smile enlarges. “You have two choices. One I don’t have to explain. The other, well. You better start remembering some old tricks.”

“I have no obligation. You have no leverage.”

The man is standing now. Five foot eight. “You don’t have as many secrets as you think, Oliver. You have one week.”

He turns his back to me and walks futher into the woods. I hear the sound of a motor start, and catch the glimpse of a Yamaha speeding away through the trees.

The knife remains in the log. I walk over and see the paper stuck there. It says a name.

Sophia Carter.