Chapter 7: The Trail Cameras

It was Hattie Ruiz from the place across the road. Seventy-four years old, quilted vest, an arthritic chihuahua named General in a sweater. She'd watched the whole thing from her kitchen window. And she wanted us to know that after the bear got into her chest freezer in August, her son had bolted four trail cameras to the fence line. Those cameras faced our driveway. We crowded into her living room while she made tea nobody drank, and Tuck scrubbed through eleven days of footage on a laptop. We...