Page 17 of Seale the Deal

So… you really shot that moose? she asks again. Probably the fifth time tonight.

Mhm.

Like, you went out and hunted it?

That’s what hunting is. I glance over my shoulder, lips twitching.

But how do you find a moose?

I turn and press my back against the counter. You call it.

Her eyes narrow. How?

I cup my hands around my mouth, plug my nose with my fingers, and let out a low, moaning sound. Wrenley bursts out laughing, and something eases in my chest.

Her laugh is huge. Loud. Free. It fills the room like sunlight and settles into places in my body I didn’t know were tense.

How is that appealing to a moose? she wheezes.

I didn’t sound desperate to get laid?

She holds up a hand, serious now. Wait. Are you saying… you lure moose into thinking it’s gonna have sex and then kill it?

I blink. I mean… yeah?

How would you feel if you thought you were about to get lucky and ended up with a bullet to the face?

I’d die thinking I was going out on a high note, so… I shrug.

She rolls her eyes. That doesn’t sound very humane.

And just like that, the ease vanishes.

I tense. I’ve had this conversation before with people who don’t get it. Who think meat just magically appears in plastic packages, bloodless and guilt-free.

You think grocery store meat is better?

There are standards, she says, a little defensively.

I raise a brow. You know most of that meat? It’s babies. Calves. Piglets. Chicks. You’re eating baby animals.

Her whole face scrunches. What? No. Veal is a baby. That’s it.

They’re all babies, I say, gesturing at nothing in particular. Pumped full of hormones to grow fast. Killed before they really live. The moose I hunted? He lived a full life. Mature, wild, protected by the law until the season opened. I used every part I could.

She stares at me, lips parted, eyes wide.

I should stop talking.

Instead, I keep going.

Meat fed me and some folks in town. Bones went to my neighbour, who carves. I gave the hide and sinew to one of the elders in town—a First Nations man who tans everything by hand. It’s tradition up here. You don’t waste what you take off the land.

Wrenley doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Her shoulders soften.

Oh my God, she whispers. I’ve been eating baby animals.

The edge in me breaks. She’s not judging. She’s just shocked and processing. I came in defensively, assumed she wouldn’t care to understand. But maybe I was wrong.