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The black merlin was hunting the meadow as I packed the buck out the following morning. Nearby, a fawn leapt out of the brush then looked me over for a minute before disappearing into the old-growth forest. A goshawk hurled itself between trunks and branches of giant hemlock and spruce trees. It paused midflight and gripped the vertical trunk of a large hemlock with its talons when it saw me. It spread its wings apart and stared, its red eyes burning, then leapt back into flight. The pack, filled with fifty pounds of premium venison, bit into my shoulders, but it was a weight I was happy to carry.

At home, MC had filled the bathtub with warm bleach water and left out a wire brush, paint thinner, and waterproof sandpaper. On the sink was a bottle of the latest and greatest hair removal product she’d bought for me. It wouldn’t work anyway—the hair on my back only comes out thicker and coarser. You can take the jungle out of the tiger, but you can’t take the tiger out of the jungle.

RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL FISHERMAN