The Last Bend Of The Lake

‘Here’s what I dream most about now. The dogs. Trying to get my numb fingers around the tricky latches of their chains. Cracking open the ice in their bowls so they can have a drink. In my dreams, I do it with a stick, or the business end of an ax, or the heel of my boot. There’s a problem, I need to do this fast. In my dreams, I’m always getting back so late. I’m always coming around the last bend of the lake long after dark, pushing away branches, and they they are in a huddle but the house: too small to be dogs somehow. They look more like rats or crows or scrabbling children– half crouching in some ditch of snow they’ve made.’

from A History of Wolves by Emily Fridlund

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