“That’s what I thought at first,” said Mr. Souza. “But the paw prints were really big. I should have taken a picture. Back beyond your place, a half mile or so. Couple of weeks ago. I could have sworn they were wolf prints.”

“I doubt it,” Bess said. “Trust me, folks don’t like wolves. Scared of them. If there was one that close, people would talk. Or worse.”

“Well, I’m no expert, that’s for sure,” Mr. Souza said. “Did see lots of Cassin’s finches back there. Grosbeaks, too. Pretty birds. Oh yes, and some ravens.”

Casey’s mother told him the cost of his postage. “With priority mail,” she said, “it should get to Boston in two, three days, latest.”

“Thanks much,” said Mr. Souza. As he passed Casey, he asked, “How’s it going, Case?” but he did not stop.

“Fine.”

Casey wanted to ask him about the paw prints. By the time he got up his nerve to do it and hurried out of the store, Mr. Souza was in his pickup truck and pulling out of the parking lot.

But it had begun to snow.

Casey did not care. Spring snow never lasted long. It might even turn to rain. All he could think was that wolves often appeared in his hunting game. It would be cool to see a real one.