Waiting for Harvey (The Spirits of Maine) by Lydia North, Kim Scott

beneath it.  I didn’t disturb the thin strips of duct tape that held the worst of the gashes together.  There was no new bleeding and I didn’t want to cause any.  Studying the pattern of the slashes and tears, it was clear that the lynx sunk its teeth in and tore them free repeatedly.  The angry lesions would leave ugly scars after they had healed.  Still, I saw no sign of infection and I was thankful for that.
    Outside the wind stirred the falling snow into a frenzied blizzard.  It wailed mournfully through the trees.  I ate, slept, and did simple chores.  By day, I wished that the hours would pass faster, and at night I wanted only to see the light of morning again.
    Days and nights passed slowly as my arm and ribs healed.  I lost all track of my days.  Counting from the day that I arrived, I guessed that Christmas had not yet come, but I couldn’t be sure.  I might have missed it already.  Thinking of the holiday and my family left me in an emotional state that I wasn’t prepared for.   
    My heart ached as I recalled holidays past.  I missed my big brother desperately.  I wanted to sit at the old dining room table where we had shared so many meals.  For Christmas, the table that was always covered with the gold table cloth embellished with poinsettias.  Year after year new stains appeared that called up memories.  I was glad that the stains were not removed.
    When the next severe storm hit I was feeling better physically.  Yet I was dispirited.  John’s failure to return pecked at my heart.  On the best days, I worried that something tragic had happened to him.  I can’t bring myself to speak of the thoughts that filled my head on my worst days.
    As the snow began piling up outside, I filled the wood box inside the cabin.  I tied off the trash bag in the kitchen and crammed it into the second metal trash can outside.  The lids were secured with bungee cords, and the full cans were left under the snow mound beside the shed. 
    Worriedly, I climbed down into the root cellar to inventory my dwindling supplies.  I wondered how long I might be able to make do with what I had left and guessed it could last for another month.  When the latest wave of snowstorms broke, I planned to make another expeditionary tour of the roads.  I would return to the work site that I found.  There would likely be more fuel in the generator that I could syphon out.  It would provide enough to get me out to the main road.
    The following day the wind shifted and blew warmer temperatures up from the south.  It was just enough to change the falling snow to freezing rain.  Through the afternoon a thick layer of ice built-up on every surface I could see.  When I opened the front door and peered out, the rich scent of pine was heavy in the air.  Branches and bows had begun snapping under the weight of the ice.
    I clamped John’s ice cleats onto the bottom of my boots and moved slowly along the trail.  Picking my way carefully over the ice crusted snow, I reached the wood pile safely.  Swinging the big axe sideways, I struck the logs and broke through the layer of ice that encased them.  Worried about what Mother Nature might bring next, I carried in two extra loads. 
    With my stomach growling, I grabbed John’s shotgun and walked over the icy path.  Wary of any slight movement, I continued along the animal trail.  I heard the ‘chawchaw’ sound of a pheasant ahead.  I wondered if it was the hunting season for the game bird.  Maybe shooting it out of season would bring the Game Warden.  I would be happy to receive a summons or even to be arrested for it.
    The larger pheasant ran for cover, but I was able to get the smaller one.  I felt relieved by the evidence that my shot had killed it.  In the sky above, the thick clouds were growing darker.  With the encounter with the Canadian lynx still fresh in my mind, I remained quiet and moved swiftly back toward the cabin.  I hadn’t heard from Harvey or