Cornelius dispensed with customary greetings. His voice carried the flat, affectless tone he employed for conference calls from his generic home office back in Colorado, probably still dressed in his work shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie discarded, laptop glowing.
“They’re moving in with you for a couple months until they locate another place.”
My hand tightened involuntarily on the chair’s armrest. “Wait, hold on. Cornelius, I just purchased this property. It’s barely adequate for me alone, much less—”
“For a couple months until they find something permanent,” he repeated mechanically, as though reciting from prepared notes.
“I bought this place specifically to live alone. I invested my entire retirement savings in—”
“Then you should have stayed in Denver,” he interrupted. “Friday morning. I’ll text you their arrival time.”
The connection terminated.
I sat motionless, still holding the phone, staring at the clearing where the elk had been grazing. They’d moved on. Smart creatures. My knuckles had blanched white against the armrest’s wood. I forced myself to release my grip, flex my fingers, regulate my breathing.
Inside, I poured another coffee I didn’t actually want and sat at the kitchen table. From my jacket pocket, I retrieved a small notepad and pen, the engineering pad I’d carried for forty years, its grid paper designed for sketches and calculations.
I began writing. Not emotional venting or angry protests. Questions. Timeline estimates. Resource assessments. Could the cabin physically support three additional occupants? What about winter access along these dirt roads? What was the heating system’s actual capacity? What would repeated trips between Denver and northwest Wyoming cost in fuel and vehicle wear?
The cabin keys rested on the table beside my notepad. An hour earlier, they’d represented freedom. Now they represented something entirely different.
I picked them up, registered their weight, set them down with careful deliberation.
For forty years I’d been the reasonable one, the family peacemaker, the man who swallowed inconvenience to maintain domestic harmony.
Not anymore.
Dawn arrived through the small kitchen windows and discovered me still seated at the table. Empty coffee cups formed a semicircle around my notepad, which had accumulated dense lists, diagrams, questions written and rewritten multiple times.
I hadn’t slept. I didn’t feel like I needed sleep. My mind operated with unusual clarity, focused and crystalline, running on something cleaner than rest. Purpose.
I brewed fresh coffee and studied my accumulated notes. Then I cleaned up, loaded necessary items into my truck, and drove back toward Cody.
Twenty minutes west of town, positioned just off the highway tourists used to reach Yellowstone’s East Entrance, the Yellowstone National Park ranger station occupied a low profile against the landscape. The modern building featured stone and timber cladding designed to blend with the surrounding foothills.
Inside, educational displays illustrated wolf pack territories, bear activity patterns, elk migration routes across detailed maps of Wyoming and Montana.
A ranger, perhaps forty years old, with the weathered complexion and sun-creased eyes characteristic of someone who spent more time outdoors than inside office buildings, glanced up from his desk. An American flag patch adorned his uniform sleeve.
“Help you with something?”
“I just relocated up from Denver,” I explained. “Bought property off County Road 14.”
“Beautiful area.” He smiled warmly. “You’ll want to exercise caution with food storage. We get significant bear activity come spring.”
“What about wolves?” I asked. “I’ve heard they’ve been reintroduced to the region.”
“Reintroduction program’s been quite successful,” he confirmed, standing and moving to a wall map where colored pins marked various locations. “They’re typically shy around humans, but they’ve got an extraordinary sense of smell. Can detect prey or food sources from miles away. You planning to hunt?”
“No, just gathering information. I want to be properly prepared.”
“Smart approach.” He handed me a pamphlet bearing the National Park Service logo. “Keep your property clean. Don’t leave attractants exposed unless you want unexpected visitors.”
I recorded careful notes in my field notebook. Wind direction patterns, pack territorial boundaries, seasonal behavior variations. I thanked him warmly, mentioned again that I’d relocated from Denver and was still learning mountain life protocols. Every word calibrated to convey exactly the right impression: concerned, naïve, precisely what he’d expect from a nervous newcomer transitioning from urban environments.
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