*
Ana is sitting on her bed; the room no longer feels like it’s hers. When her mom was at her angriest, when she was most hurt that her daughter hadn’t moved with her after the divorce, she said Ana was “a classic case of codependency.” That she was staying for her dad’s sake, because she knew he wouldn’t manage without her. Maybe it was true, Ana doesn’t know. She’s always wanted to be close to him, not because he understood her but because he understood the forest. That was her big adventure, and no one knew more about that than he did—there was no better hunter in the whole of Beartown than her dad. As a child she would lie awake in bed at night with her clothes on, hoping that the phone would ring. Whenever there was a car accident involving a wild animal anywhere in the district, which happened fairly regularly in winter, and the driver informed the police that the animal had disappeared into the forest, injured, it was Ana’s dad who they called.
His stubbornness and obstinacy and taciturnity were poor qualities in life, but perfect in the forest. “The pair of you can just sit here for the rest of your lives, then, never saying a word!” her mom yelled when she left, so they did. They just didn’t see anything wrong with it, that’s all.
Ana has very clear memories of always nagging her dad to take her with him at night when she was little, but she never got her way. It was always too dangerous, too late at night, too cold. And she knew that meant he had been drinking. Her dad always trusted his daughter in the forest, but not himself.
*
Adri is going around the kennels feeding the dogs. She can see Benji in the gym in the outbuilding; his crutches are on the floor while he’s on the bench press. He’s lifted ridiculous amounts of weight this evening, even allowing for the fact that he’s her crazy brother. She knows that the team is having a voluntary training session today; she heard in town that they were out running in the forest. And that Kevin was there too.
But she doesn’t ask Benji why he’d rather be alone. She doesn’t want to be that sort of nagging sister. She may not have been born here, but she’s still a Beartown girl. As tough as the forest, as hard as the ice. Work hard, keep your mouth shut.
*
Ana is standing naked in front of the mirror in her room, counting. She’s always been good at that. Top grades in math all her life. When she was little she used to count everything—stones, blades of grass, trees in the forest, tracks on the ground, empty bottles in the cupboard under the sink, freckles on Maya’s skin, even breaths. Sometimes, when she felt really bad, she counted scars. But mostly she just counted faults. She would stand in front of the mirror and point at them: all the things that were wrong about her. Sometimes that made it feel more bearable, when she had already said them out loud to herself before anyone at school did.
Her dad knocks on her door. He hasn’t done that in years. Since her mom left, father and daughter have had separate apartments, separate lives. She quickly gets dressed and opens the door in surprise. He’s standing in the hall looking bewildered. Not drunk-bewildered, not the sad, lonely man who used to sit up all night; he’s sober now. He reaches out his hand without touching her, as if he no longer knows how to say he cares. He says the words slowly:
“I spoke to some of the guys on the hunting team. The hockey club’s called its members to a meeting. There’s a group of parents and sponsors who are demanding a vote about Peter.”
“About . . . Peter?” Ana repeats, because the meaning of the words isn’t sinking in.
“They’re going to demand that the club fire him.”
“What? WHY?”
“The police weren’t called in until a week after the party. Some people are saying that . . . what happened . . . is . . .”
He can’t say the word “rape” in front of his daughter, doesn’t want her to see how relieved and happy he is that it wasn’t her. Scared that she’ll hate him for that. Ana’s fists hit the edge of the bed.
“A lie? They’re saying it’s a lie? And now they think Peter waited a week to report it to the police because he wanted to get at KEVIN? As if KEVIN’S the goddamn VICTIM HERE!?”
Her dad nods. He stands in the doorway for so long without knowing what to say that all he eventually comes out with is:
“I’ve made elk burgers. They’re in the kitchen.”
He shuts the door behind him and goes back downstairs.
*
Ana calls Maya a hundred times that evening. She can understand why she’s not getting any answer. Knows Maya hates her. Because precisely what did Maya predict? This. If she hadn’t told the truth, Kevin would only have hurt her. But now he’s hurt everyone Maya loves too.
*
The doorbell rings. Peter opens the door. It’s the club’s president. He looks so sad, so crumpled and sweaty and dirty, so drained and broken by stress that Peter can’t even bring himself to hate him.
“There’s going to be a meeting and a vote. The club consists of its members, and if they demand that the board dismiss you . . . then . . . it’s out of my hands, Peter. But you can be there to speak up for yourself. That’s your right.”
The girl walks into the hall, behind her dad. At first Peter holds out his arm, as if to protect her, but she calmly pushes it aside. She stands in the doorway and looks the president in the eye. And he looks back at her.
At least he does that.
*
It’s late when Benji’s crutch knocks on Adri’s bedroom door. He’s standing outside with his arms shaking from muscle fatigue. Adri only knows three phases of exercise in normal people: when you put up with the pain, when you learn to enjoy it, and when you start to look forward to it. Her brother is way beyond that. He needs the pain. Has become dependent on it. Can’t survive without it.
“Can you give me a lift?” he asks.
There’s so much she wants to ask, but she says nothing. She’s not that sort of sister. If he wants someone to nag him, he’ll have to call Katia or Gaby.
*
Peter shuts the door. He and Maya are standing alone in the hall. His daughter looks up:
“Is it the board or the parents who want to fire you?”
Peter gives a melancholy smile.
“Both. But it’s easier for the board if the members demand it. It’s always easier to let someone else take the penalty minutes for you.”
She puts her hands on his.
“I’ve ruined everything, I’ve ruined everything for everyone, I’ve ruined everything for you,” she sobs.
He brushes her hair from her face and answers calmly:
“Don’t say that. Don’t even think that. Never again. What could those bastards ever give me? An espresso machine? They can stick their espresso machine up their asses!”
She starts giggling, like when her mom tells rude jokes and her dad gets embarrassed.
“You don’t even like espresso. You used to call it ‘expresso’ until last year or something . . .”