JACKSON HOLE AIRPORT. OCTOBER 19.
9:30 P.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.
J.P. was crawling out of his skin. Jake had texted him in the morning, asking for a ride home from the airport at 7:30 p.m. That flight, United 721, had come and gone on time. Two hours later, J.P. was still sitting in the terminal.
He glanced at the flat-screen, which sat above the bronze relief of the Snake River, with its perplexing weave of meanders and side channels. No news of plane crashes or bad weather. J.P. tried Jake’s phone again, but there was no answer. Shit.
J.P. stood and headed to the parking lot, unsure what to do next. Where the hell is he? It wasn’t like Jake to no-show without calling ahead. Without Jake, he had no real hope of finding Esma. He tried her cell this time. No answer.
Coyotes howled as J.P. walked to his truck, fretting about the imminent arrival of the high-country winter. When the snow covered the ground, the scavengers could only wander aimlessly, praying for a scent of field mice, pika, an elk carcass. They were hopeless but for luck. Like J.P. felt now.
Some would survive the ordeal. Many wouldn’t.