Weaver knows this place, the way it shivers and breaths. Each branch and stone and living creature know him, or know of him. He mediates between the hunters and the hunted. Each creature has to be caught first, then killed or released, depending on their standing in the community of life.

During hunt & release season, the vultures blacken the sky, their acidic guano eats away the bars of the cages; a symbiotic relationship. Death Juice is traded among the creatures, like a cyanide pill. If they are caught, they spray a few drops and the vultures attack the hunter’s lodges and holding cells. The vultures’ shit eats away at locks, chains, bolts and cables. Many creatures escape. But the hunters can’t shoot the vultures, unless they catch them first and obtain a permit.

Weaver thinks of all these as he makes his way to a possible criminal act, hunting during winter is punishable by a running death, no permit needed. He races along the snow, panting and loading his Advocator. Something’s not right.