They say March is supposed to come in like a lion and out like a lamb but this month wasn’t living up to its folkloric stature. Looking back, I should have taken it as a warning; a cosmic sign of trouble brewing beneath the blanket of peacefulness that covered my life. I had eaten my fill of small game and was just about to head back when I was caught off guard by the smell of caramel and spice wafting through the threadbare branches of black cherry, oak, and maple. My nose instinctively jerked up, leading my eyes to the source of the smell: a hiker coming out of his tent not fifty yards from where I made my last kill. I hadn’t been hunting in almost a month. The intense enjoyment of chasing my prey stole all of my focus and I hadn’t caught the scent of a human nearby nor had I seen the tent until it was too late. Hadn’t this human noticed the steel grey clouds rolling in like crushing waves, or felt the chill piercing the air? A vast and terrible storm was brewing around us. Why was he not at home, sheltered and warm?
