“For a couple months until they find something,” he repeated, like he was reading a memo.

“I bought this place to be alone. I spent my entire retirement on—”

“Then you should have stayed in Denver,” he cut in. “Friday morning, I’ll text you their arrival time.”

The line went dead.

I sat there holding the phone, staring at the clearing where the elk had been. They’d moved on. Smart animals. My knuckles had gone white on the armrest. I forced myself to release it, flex my fingers, breathe.

Inside, I poured another coffee I didn’t want and sat at the kitchen table. From my jacket pocket, I pulled a small notepad and a pen—the kind of engineering pad I’d carried for forty years, grid paper for sketches and calculations.

I started writing. Not emotional venting; questions, timeline estimates, resource assessments. Could the cabin even support three extra people? Winter access? Heating capacity? What would repeated trips between Denver and northwest Wyoming cost me?

The cabin keys sat on the table beside my notepad. An hour ago, they’d meant freedom. Now they meant something else entirely.

I picked them up, felt their weight, set them down with deliberate care.

Forty years I’d been the reasonable one, the peacemaker, the man who swallowed inconvenience to keep family peace.

Not anymore.

Dawn came through the small kitchen windows and found me still at the table. Empty coffee cups formed a semicircle around my notepad, which had grown dense with lists, diagrams, questions written and rewritten.

I hadn’t slept. I didn’t feel like I needed to. My mind felt sharp in a way it hadn’t for years—focused, crystalline, operating on something cleaner than rest: purpose.

I made fresh coffee and studied my notes. Then I cleaned up, loaded my truck, and drove back toward Cody.

Twenty minutes west of town, just off the highway that leads tourists toward Yellowstone’s East Entrance, the Yellowstone National Park ranger station sat low against the landscape, a modern building clad in stone and timber that tried to blend into the foothills.

Inside, educational displays showed wolf packs, bear territories, elk migration patterns across maps of Wyoming and Montana.

A ranger, maybe forty, with the weathered face and sun-creased eyes of someone who spent more time outdoors than in, looked up from his desk. An American flag patch was sewn neatly on his sleeve.

“Help you?”

“I just moved up from Denver,” I said. “Bought a place off County Road 14.”

“Beautiful area.” He smiled. “You’ll want to be careful with food storage. Lots of bear activity come spring.”

“What about wolves?” I asked. “I’ve heard they’re back in the region.”

“Reintroduction’s been successful,” he said, standing and moving to a wall map, pointing to areas marked with colored pins. “They’re usually shy, but they’ve got an incredible sense of smell. Can detect prey or food from miles away. You hunting?”

“No, just curious. I want to be prepared.”

“Smart.” He handed me a pamphlet with the National Park Service logo. “Keep your property clean. Don’t leave attractants out unless you want visitors.”

I took careful notes in my field notebook. Wind direction, pack territories, seasonal behavior patterns. I thanked him warmly, mentioned again that I was from Denver and still learning about mountain life. Every word calibrated to sound naïve, concerned—exactly what he’d expect from a nervous newcomer from the city.

Back in Cody, I found an outdoor supply store, the kind with mounted elk heads and antlers on the walls and racks of camouflage gear under fluorescent lights. The camera section sat between the hunting equipment and basic home security systems.

“Looking for wildlife cameras,” I told the clerk. “Want to monitor bear activity near my property.”

He showed me two models with motion activation, night vision, cellular connectivity. “These will do you right. We get lots of folks wanting to keep an eye on their land.”

“Two of these,” I said.

“Three-forty,” he replied, ringing them up.

I paid cash.

At the cabin Wednesday afternoon, I installed them methodically. One camera covered the driveway approach. The other angled toward the front porch and clearing. I tested the motion sensors, checked signal strength, adjusted positions until the coverage was perfect.

The engineering part of my brain, forty years of solving structural problems, found satisfaction in the precision. Hide the cameras enough to be unobtrusive. Position them for optimal capture. Test, adjust, verify.

Both cameras connected to my phone with one bar of cellular service. Weak but functional.

Thursday morning, I drove back to Cody again. The butcher shop sat on a side street off the main drag, the kind of place that served ranchers and local restaurants, with a hand-painted sign and a faded U.S. flag in the window.

“Need twenty pounds of beef scraps,” I said. “Organ meat, fat trimmings. For dogs.”

The butcher didn’t blink. “You got it.”

Forty-five dollars later, I walked out with meat wrapped in thick white paper and loaded into coolers I’d brought in the truck bed. The smell was immediate and powerful—blood, fat, raw flesh.

Thursday afternoon, I stood in the clearing behind my cabin with the coolers open. The wind came from the west. I checked it the old way, wetting my finger and holding it up.

I walked thirty yards from the structure, upwind. Then I placed the meat in three piles, spreading it to maximize scent dispersion. Not random—calculated. Close enough to draw predators to the area, far enough that they’d focus on the piles, not the building.