Page 51 of Gunnar

I stop in the doorway.

For a moment I simply stare.

The deer looks enormous up close. Brown fur slicked with sweat and blood, long legs folded awkwardly beneath its body.

Orson plants one hand on the table beside it, breathing deep for a second.

Then he straightens.

“Need a knife.”

I blink. “What?”

“Knife.”

I glance around, spot the block by the stove, and grab the largest one.

When I hand it to him, he tests the edge against his thumb with a quick, practiced movement.

Is he really going to butcher the deer on the kitchen table?

Apparently so.

He turns back to the deer, focused on the task in front of him.

Which leaves me standing there.

And suddenly remembering why I came outside in the first place.

“Uh—Orson?”

He doesn’t look up. “Yeah.”

“Do you guys have laundry facilities somewhere?”

This time he pauses.

The knife stops halfway to the deer’s neck.

Then he glances at me like the question has just arrived from a great distance. “Laundry?”

“Yes. Laundry.”

He studies me for a second longer.

Then jerks his chin toward the back of the lodge.

“Shed.”

“There’s a shed?”

Out back.

Right.

“Thanks.”

Conversation apparently concluded.