I hardly dream of wolves hunting, howling, barking, and turning a dead moose to its back, its legs cracked at the knees, blood pooling at the wolves’ feet, steam rising from the kill’s split ribs. I hardly dream of wolves. I hardly ever dream, hardly ever of the womb. I am not that far removed from cracking bones to put food in my stomach, from dipping my nose into the gut of a moose to warm my face from the cold. I am not that far removed from eating only what I catch, not that far removed from being afraid of waking to find my family vanished.