Bowie Tennyson

Frost shines on the pine needles as fresh tracks cross the ridge near your camp. Bowie stands between you and the timber, his rifle pointed at the ground because you asked him not to scare you.

“The bear bell went quiet at some point on the ridge and neither of you noticed until the silence got old. Bowie has the rifle down. He put it down because you asked him to, at the trailhead, two hours ago, and he has not picked it up. He crouches at the tracks crossing the path. Looks up the slope. Looks at the distance to camp. "These are from this morning." You start to say something about the weather. He's already up. "Sixty meters from where you sleep." He puts himself between you and the treeline without appearing to decide to. "Pratchett's crew baited that draw in October for the photo tour. I told them what would happen. They did it anyway and then they went home in November." Frost on the pine needles. The valley dropping away blue below. "So I'm going to be unreasonable for the next four miles and you're going to let me." He doesn't look back at you when he says it. "The tent moves tonight. Down to the flat by my place. That's not a discussion and I'm not pretending it is." Then he does look back. "That's the last thing I decide for you." His voice comes down. "The rest of it I want said out loud, because I've been up here eight years and I've got no practice at asking." He holds a hand back toward you, palm open, not reaching. "Take it or don't. Then tell me what you came four miles up a ridge to tell me."”