It is the cold, not the dawn, that wakes JP. Next to him, Steve sleeps with his legs tucked into his chest, the phone at his side. JP stares through the old, melted window, catching his reflection in it, and then beyond it, outside, a harrier lands among the branches of the ash tree. Its talons grab a thick limb and it surveys the lodge below. The bird puffs out its blue chest and stares directly at JP. Its eyes look black and dead, but its body is strong. It flaps its wings and then holds them open, posturing, showing the expanse of its strength, the reddened feathers on the wing tips tapering to ominous points. Then the harrier settles back on the branch. Still it eyes JP warily, cocking its head and pacing along the narrow limb. Suddenly, it flaps again, hovers for a moment, and stares at JP with full menace.JP sits up as the bird takes flight, coming straight toward him, its wings pounding the air. It explodes through the ancient window, tumbling in a heap of feathers, blood, and glass.Steve springs from his sleeping bag.
JP sits there stupidly looking at the bird. “He saw me from outside. He tried to kill me.”
Steve looks from the harrier, to the window, to the tree branch, which still sways gently from where the bird launched off it. “Not you. Dumbshit bird tried to kill his reflection.” He pulls on his jeans and stands over the harrier, examining its body, lifting the large wings. They droop heavily in his hands. He pets the feathers between his palms. “He’s a beaut. I can fix him up real nice. I’m gonna run into town and get some ice so he don’t spoil. Listen, don’t worry about the pig. You keep an eye on this bird and we’ll call your trip even. You don’t need to pay me anything. Sound good?”
As Steve rushes out the door, JP, still in his sleeping bag, stares at the harrier. A blast of wind comes through the broken window and the lodge quickly becomes cold. JP fills the belly of the stove with quartered logs and lights a fire. The logs begin to pop. He takes the large pieces of broken glass and stacks them in the corner by his rucksack and the Remington, leaving the harrier lying on the ancient pine boards. He imagines the powerful bird stuffed and mounted on some wall. He wonders what pose Steve will put it into—probably something fierce. No one will guess or care how this big dumb bird died. JP looks up on the wall behind the stove at the jaguars, the mountain lions, the skunk pigs, which all stare down on him. There is also the picture of Steve’s grandfather.
The lodge is warm now. JP brushes small flecks of glass from the harrier’s wings, cleaning them a bit. He reaches his hands beneath the bird, scooping it up, the body warm and heavy in his arms. He dumps the bird in the fire, where the quartered logs collapse on it. The fire licks up its side. The smell, not of cooking flesh, but the sharper smell of cremating flesh, fills the lodge. The body burns quick and bright, and then the flames recede to a gentle lapping.
JP takes out the steel coffee maker from his rucksack, fills it with more water from his canteen, and sets it on the embers. As it warms, he unstraps the Remington and breaks the rifle down into its parts before cleaning it. The coffee on the fire comes to a boil and JP pours out his one cup, drinking it as he reassembles the rifle. He wipes down the barrel and the stock with the paper towels and throws them on the fire. He finishes his coffee and sets the Remington against the corner.
He leaves his rifle for Steve, so they’re even and so his ruck- sack will be lighter. He also pours the second cup of coffee and sets it near the fire to keep it warm. He packs up the rest of his things and leaves the lodge, knowing the walk to town will be long.