Jonah had always been comfortable with taxidermy. In fact, the room in which he now stood was studded generously with the trophies of his innumerable hunts out in the Appalachians and lands far beyond, the resin eyes all seeming to fix on him and his wife, Marg, who stood next to him, seemingly shrunken since her mother had passed away a few weeks ago. Jonah had had to fake tears at her memorial service.

He had given her the number of his most trusted taxidermist, a man named “Wooly Ben,” a nickname he never quite figured out, as the man was completely bald. But old Wooly could take the most mangled, most shot-riddled quarry and turn it into a work of art.

He had given her the number, thinking that his birthday, which was next week, was going to bring another addition to the furry family that lined his walls.

He stood, slack-jawed in horror, realizing that he was going to have to live with his incorrigible mother-in-law, standing disturbingly lifelike, as menacing as the bear in the opposite corner.