A singular bleating made it clear that Frances had not saved the lives of her goat’s three kids. She had woken to growling, scrambling, and was that gnawing? Before her thoughts could clarify, she had run barefoot onto the porch, grabbed the axe that sat by the woodpile, and descended into dark so total she relied on her body’s knowledge of the yard’s slope. She shouted, swung, tried to make herself monstrous. But the predator had run off, its teeth packed with meat. So Frances led the crying mother to the shed before retrieving a flashlight and . . .
Subscriber Access Required
This article is available to paid subscribers with digital access.
- Already a subscriber with digital access? Log in here to read the full article.
- Not yet subscribed? Subscribe now for full digital access to all articles and downloadable PDFs.
- Prefer a one-time purchase? Click the “Purchase PDF” button above.
- Institutional user? Recommend LIBER to your institution's library for unlimited access.
