Here, there are a few articles of his clothing hanging from the branches: A jean-leg, threaded with iron-grey tendrils of lichen; a belt, choked in a Y-branch; a workman’s cap trodden into the moss. She touches fingertips to the humus, nostrils flaring as she breathes in slicing cold.

“He stopped here. Wanted to get warm after swimming across the river.”

Ivan the bloodhound shakes spores from his coat, snuffles the earth. “His scent is gone.”

Mindy wraps her arms in her coat; watches the lanky dog circle through the trees, loose flesh hanging from him like old carpet.

“Don’t waste your time,” she admonishes, searching in her pocket for a breath-mint.

“It’s always worth a try.” Ivan says, loping back to her. “Where now?”

“Down that way,” she says, pointing through the trees, “towards the highway.” She pops a mint in her mouth, breathes a mint-fresh humid spume into the air, and runs a gloved hand through her grey hair.

Ivan does his mouth-open smile. “Buck-naked, hairy-ass hippy hitching to Vancouver?”

“Should be easy to find.”