He raises his face to those cold wet flakes, closes his eyes, holds this elk calf he’s been calling his daughter close to his chest. She hasn’t been growing as fast as Andy, and she hasn’t moved since stabbing that leg up into the air, but she will, he knows. He just has to get her home, to land she knows, to grass she remembers. He’ll watch her grow for the rest of the year, keep the coyotes and wolves and bears away, and, when she can, he’ll let her go on her own, stand there crying from sadness, from happiness. And then it’ll all be over. Indian stories always hoop back on themselves like
...more
