Page 50 of Gunnar

Not even Orson.

And definitely not Gunnar.

There has to be one somewhere.

I open the back door and step out into a large clearing.

Stacks of chopped logs sit to one side. An old pickup truck crouches under a sagging tarp. Beyond that, the forest rises in a wall of dark green.

No laundry line.

No obvious washing situation of any kind⁠—

Then the woods erupt.

Branches snap as something crashes through the undergrowth, fast and heavy, heading straight for the clearing.

My whole body goes rigid. For one wild second I think⁠—

Bear.

Then the trees break apart and a massive shape bursts through—brown fur, hooves, blood—and somehow entwined with it⁠—

Orson.

Completely naked.

With a dead deer slung over his shoulders.

“What the fuck?” I exclaim.

He stands there for a second, then shifts the weight and gives it a short shake, like he’s settling a sack of groceries.

He grins at me. “Lunch.”

My gaze drops to the animal’s throat. It’s all kind of torn out.

I register, at the same time, the blood on his teeth.

My stomach turns.

“You hunted it.”

“Yup.”

He tips his jaw at me and starts toward the lodge like this is the most ordinary thing in the world.

I step aside, but the deer’s hind legs still catch me across the hip. I make a sound, more of surprise than pain.

“The door!” he barks, oblivious.

I stare at him for a second. Then I realize he literally can’t open it.

I get there just as he reaches it.

He ducks to clear the frame, the deer’s hooves knocking against the wood as he carries it inside.

The carcass hits the big kitchen table with a heavy thud.