No, this is something different, something worse. Elk. Denorah nods to herself, puzzling the bones together in her head. Elk, definitely. There’s one side of a rack tilted up over there, even, unbleached and frozen, and—she looks around faster now, more desperate. This can’t be that place, can it? The place her dad would never tell her about, where him and his friends blasted all those elk ten years ago? But it is that place.
