Chapter 24: The Gate, a Year Later

Linnea turned twenty-six on a Friday in October, and I drove up to the gate with a cake on the passenger seat.

It was a lemon cake from Beck's own kitchen, in a white box, with her name piped on top in blue.

He had made me carry it, because he said she would forgive me for being late and never forgive a squashed cake.

I stopped the truck at the iron gate and turned off the engine.

The pines stood tall and dark on either side, and the gravel road ran away up the hill.

Linnea's spare bottle of pine oil still sat in the cup holder, left there on some visit years ago.

I picked it up and looked at it for a while.

Then I got out of the truck and dropped it into the trash can by the gatepost.

It made a small, final thump.

I had hung up my scrubs at the Marquette clinic in the spring.

Now I ran the pack's animal clinic in a converted barn behind the Longhouse, with a sign over the door in Stellan's careful handwriting.

Four cows, six dogs and a goat with opinions had been my morning.

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