What had happened was not some kind of bizarre dream. With the knife’s curved blade glinting, Cole slit the hide from the neck, down the chest, and over the belly. He started peeling it back, a few inches at a time. “Sick animals understand why they’re taken,” he said, working slowly. “They know they’re going to a greater good.” Tatum looked away, worrying about the dogs. She wondered if they could get sick from eating a sick animal. Then she turned back, forcing herself to watch. Otherwise she’d never be at home in the wild. Her stomach turned while Cole pushed, pulled, lifted, skinned, and twisted joints. He ignored the blood. Bandit paced around the carcass. Wrangell and Chugach had jumped from the sleds. But they stayed back, away from the kill. The tethered dogs howled, impatient for their share. Wolf’s ears were forward, waiting. “Nothing is wasted—not the heart, lungs, tongue.” Cole leaned over the belly and pulled out steaming guts. “The elders teach us to treat animals with respect when we butcher them so their spirits will return for a future harvest.”
