Firstborn by Tor Seidler Page A

giving her an appraising look.
    â€œWhere are you from?” Alberta said.
    â€œThe Lamar Valley.”
    â€œWhere’s that?”
    â€œThe northeast corner of Yellowstone.”
    â€œYou’re young,” Lupa said.
    â€œNot that young,” Raze said. “I’ll be two in the spring.”
    â€œBut you were born down here,” Alberta said. “Don’t you have a pack?”
    â€œI dispersed last fall.”
    â€œWhy?” Hope asked.
    â€œI figured I’d find a mate and start a pack of my own,” Raze said, giving Hope a dismissive look. “But I haven’t had much luck. It was a rough winter.”
    â€œWhat’s this Lamar Valley like?” Lupa asked.
    â€œLike no place you’ve ever seen. Full of elk and pronghorn and mule deer.”
    â€œIf it’s such a paradise, why’d you leave?” Frick asked.
    â€œLike I said, it was time for me to disperse.”
    â€œElk, you say?” Blue Boy said.
    â€œHuge herds,” Raze said. “Bison, too. You could take down a bison, I bet. There’s hundreds of them—huge things, and not that fast.”
    â€œHow do they taste?”
    â€œDelicious.”
    It was strange. I didn’t know this Raze, and I’d never laid eyes on a bison, yet something made me doubt he’d ever tasted one.
    â€œMaybe we should move there,” Lupa suggested.
    â€œFrick’s not ready for a journey,” said Hope.
    â€œGo, please,” Frick said. “I’d love a little peace and quiet.”
    â€œWe couldn’t leave you!” Hope cried.
    Over the summer we moved base camp a few times but stayed in the general vicinity. Raze kept dropping hints about the game-filled paradise, however, and by September, Frick had gotten a bit stronger. One day Blue Boy took me aside and asked if I would mind checking out this Lamar Valley and reporting back.
    I flew east the next morning. Blue Boy hadn’t said anything about rushing, so I stopped whenever I felt like it to rest and chat with other birds. I passed over some rugged, snow-capped peaks and a big, turbulent river and an interstate highway. By midday I’d crossed into my third state: Wyoming. Soon after this I learned from a bunch of goldfinches that I’d also crossed something called the Continental Divide. I wished I hadn’t asked what it was. They told me that on one side of the divide the rivers all flowed toward one ocean and on the other side toward another—which, of course, made me think of Trilby.
    But once I was in the heart of Yellowstone the wonders there pushed even Trilby out of my thoughts. A great spout of steamy water shot out of the earth and nearly hit me in midflight. Not far away were bubbling hot springs, and mud pots, and what looked like giant anthills puffing smoke. There was a forest full of trees made of stone, and rivers working their way through canyons so deep that from the top even ospreys couldn’t have made out fish in the water. There were pools that were orange or green instead of blue. Sampling one, I scorched my bill and shot off to a nearby lake to douse it. It was the largest lake I’d ever seen. Fishing in it were strange-looking birds with big yellow bills that stretched even bigger for storing their catch.
    Most of Yellowstone was wilderness, but there were clusters of humans gawking at the wonders, and a few structures made of logs with peaked roofs. But what particularly interested me was a small compound in a clearing. Frick had told me about the place they’d been brought after they were captured in Canada, and this fit the description. There was an A-frame, three trailers, and a series of outdoor pens with chain-link fences. The A-frame had a garage attached with a dusty four-wheeler parked outside. A couple of humans were studying a sickly-looking wolf in one of the pens. The bigger human was a male with a furry face, the other a female with long hair