“Well,” Art began over a hastily prepared meal of cooked and mixed together canned goods. “If we want to leave in the morning, we have a lot to do now. Including making some snowshoes.”
I’d told him all about what happened, or seemed to happen, in the attic. He’d turned pale but then smiled warmly at me, even though his eyes were full of tears. We cleaned up and cleared the table.
“Well need long sticks and duct tape for the snowshoes,” he said.
I pulled a roll of tape out of my camera bag. I also pulled out the camera, dying to take pictures of everything, the cabin, him, the bear on the porch, but I couldn’t afford to use up the batteries until we were sure we didn’t need the GPS any longer, and we definitely needed it to start with.
Once again, I pored over all the maps, combining a
