The hunter’s stench poisoned the breeze. Ares cocked his ears – one half gone from an old buckshot blast – to listen for voices. There were none. When it came to men, silence often preceded violence. Thankfully, Irma approached. Clumsy Rollo lumbered behind. They had been foraging for huckleberries in the meadow. Come on, hurry up. A flash of sunlight winked from the man’s position. A gun! Ares bolted into the clearing. Run! He flanked the other bears and positioned himself between them and the hunter as they fled into the forest.

Once concealed, Rollo motioned questioningly to a large spruce. The family had lost a cub to a wolfpack two summers ago, and Irma often treed Rollo at the sign of danger. She huffed. Not this time, little one. The hunter would come for them. The youngling leapt at a loud boom. Irma nuzzled him. Thunder, not gunfire. They marched to the pitter-patter of rain, their paws squelching in the mud. The aroma of damp earth permeated the air. Matching the urgent pace of her mate, Irma hurdled a log. She spared a glance as Rollo clawed his way up and tumbled over.

The rain stopped, and Ares shook the moisture from his fur. Darkness descended. A nocturnal trek with a cub would be foolhardy. Irma knew the area, and she urged them along. Soon she found it. A den carved into the earth. Thankfully, it was vacant. Ares sniffed the air. A campfire. Close. They ducked into the tight space. Inside, a new problem arose. Irma had recently weaned Rollo and, lacking other food sources, she put him to the teat. She clicked her tongue in frustration. Milk is dry. No edible plants grew nearby, and the salmon river was a day’s hike. Ares grunted. Skip dinner? Irma stomped and huffed. No. After a spirited argument about who would hunt and who would protect Rollo, victorious Irma stalked into the night. Ares’s only condition: Stay away from the hunter.

Rollo bit into his father’s good ear and dangled above the soft dirt. Ares playfully flung his head and sent the little bear tumbling. Rollo returned only to be thrown again. Ares envied the cub’s innocence. If only life were all about play. He had checked the mouth of the cave a dozen times for signs of Irma’s return. He should have gone in her stead. Stubborn she-bear.

A deafening crack echoed in the night. Gunshot. Irma! His muscles coiled, and he nearly sprinted from the space. Stop. Think. He maintained his vigil. A howl shattered the silence. Then another. And another. The mournful wails of a dozen wolves summoned a crippling panic. A pack that size could take down a bear. He knew their language. They had cornered their prey and were converging for the kill. Unable to leave without endangering Rollo, Ares waited in agony.

Finally, Irma wandered into view. A dead fox dangled from her mouth. Stole it from the wolves while they were away. She failed to mention her visit to the hunter’s campsite – and the bullet she almost took to the gut. They descended into the den to feed their child. The cacophony of howls haunted them through the night. Ares translated. They’re pissed.

The next day, the bears reached the river. Wisps of fog wafted from its churning surface like steam. Rollo splashed at a dark shape that zigzagged below. If Irma hadn’t secured a late-night meal, their hunger would have forced them to stop. Ares spotted their crossing point. He waded into the chest-deep water and steadied himself against the current’s powerful tug. Halfway across, chaos erupted. Rollo lost his footing and plunged under. Ares hooked him with a paw. When the large bear twisted, something punched into him. The blast of a gunshot fractured the air. Pain wracked his body. Irma shrieked as father and son were swept away. She dove after them.

They emerged downstream. After they pulled themselves from the water, Irma rushed to her bleeding mate. Ares clicked his tongue. Keep moving. They threaded the dense trees and delved deeper into the forest. The buzzing of insects welcomed the night. The scent of predators drew the bears closer together. A thicket of bushes thrashed as something large bolted through it. More movement on the opposite side. The drumming of paws through the blanket of wet leaves.

The bears reached a clearing. The first wolf approached. Saliva driveled from its snarling mouth. Others emerged. Ares tried to position himself between his family and the predators, but it was no use. They kept coming. The wolves crouched, hackles raised, poised to attack. Irma swept Rollo beneath her and straddled the cub. A deep growl rumbled from her diaphragm. Ares hoisted himself to his full height. His roar shook the forest. The wolves circled. A stab from the bullet wound caused Ares to stagger back to all fours. Emboldened, the wolves stalked closer, their fangs bared. The bears stood their ground. Even Rollo sidled out from his mother’s protection and crouched into a fighting stance.

The wolves parted as a massive grey approached. The alpha. His yellow eyes regarded the bears as he lowered into a crouch. Ares inched forward. Flared nostrils puffed in staccato bursts, conjuring a haze that shrouded the two apex predators as they faced off. Bears and wolves tensed for a melee that could erupt at any moment. The alpha paused. Slowly, he stretched toward Ares, sniffing at him. Ares stood like a statue as the wolf gently nuzzled his fur where the bullet had lodged. The wolf’s snout glistened with blood as he withdrew it. The adversaries locked eyes. Understanding. The alpha gave a silent order to the pack.

Ares’s good ear twitched as howls and gunshots ruptured the silence. A night owl launched itself into the air, skirting the edge of the full moon. Mother and child propped up the wounded patriarch from either side. Together they trekked through the night.