Page 6 of First Chance

“Thanks,” I mutter softly as I squeeze past him. There’s plenty of room, but he’s so large in this normalsized house that it feels like he’s looming over me. In my heels, I’m about six feet tall, but I’m still only to his chin.

There’s a straight wooden staircase directly in front of the door, leading upstairs. To the right is a modest but outdated living room, and to the left is the kitchen, which is where he leads me. His head nearly brushes the top of the door frame, but he doesn’t duck as if years of the same routine tells him he won’t hit it.

The brown oak cabinets match the oak table sitting off to the side. The refrigerator and stove look straight out of a sitcom from the 70’s. It looks like someone’s grandparents’ house, in every stereotypical way.

“The computer is in here, and I keep all the paperwork in these drawers.” He pulls out a stack of mail from the built-in above the kitchen table. “I’d like you to go through the mail and my emails regularly, throw away the junk, and prioritize the rest. The bills are always the number one priority,” he sighs.

“Bills, emails, mail. What else?” I ask with too much gusto, and he notices, looking at me peculiarly. I don’t care, it’s my first day and I’m so excited.

“Well, I’m not asking you to be an accountant, but if there is any way you can crunch some numbers, find areas that we can decrease spending, or a way to make a profit. I’ve been racking my brain for months now and can’t find a way out of the hole we’re in.”

“How much of a hole?”

“We’re operating at the base level, enough to function. There isn’t any extra. My grandfather started this place when things were simple and cheaper. Now, food for the bears, materials, and the equipment we need cost almost triple whatthey used to.”

“How much are your workers making?”

“They only make minimum wage, but they live here for free, get two meals a day provided.”

“Like prison?” The words leave my mouth before I have a chance to think about it, and his face darkens.

“No, not like prison. They’re free men here. They choose to be here to get a leg up with employment experience and some savings before getting thrown into the real world. They can come and go as long as they do their jobs. They get a bonus once their parole is up. Most of them use it to buy a car or put a down payment on a place to live once they leave. They follow my rules because they want to stay, not because they have to.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

He doesn’t respond right away, turning in a half circle and swiping a hand over the back of his neck. “Follow me, I’ll show you around the property so you know the basics.”

I trace his steps back out of the house when he stops suddenly. “Upstairs is off limits. You can go anywhere on the main level and the porch. Not upstairs,” he says over his shoulder, not waiting for me to confirm.

I follow him across the dirt lot toward the outbuildings, wobbling slightly when I hit the gravelly spots. The only indication he notices is how his strides shorten, slowing his pace.

“The main barn is the bunkhouse. The guys live here, dorm style. Shared kitchen and living space, but their beds are quartered off and private.” He doesn’t open a door to show me inside, he continues walking down the alleyway between all the buildings. “This is where we keep the vehicles.” Heopens the door, showing me a few mismatched work trucks not likely from this decade and a couple more small all-terrain vehicles. Aside from a shiny red motorcycle in the corner and a green Ford Bronco, they’re all dirty and well-used.

“We keep all the bear supplies in here.” He shows me inside a smaller building, leading me into the depths this time. “Food and medical supplies. GPS collars, if we need them.”

“They don’t wear collars all the time?”

“No, only if they need regular medical intervention or supervision. They have over 100 acres here to roam freely. Our goal is to keep it as close to their natural habitat as possible.”

“How do you keep them contained?”

“A fence runs around the entire property. My grandfather spent most of his time here making sure every inch was fenced in. Mostly to keep people out and away from his animals.”

“But it’s not working now?”

“It’s an old fence,” he says wearily. “We don’t have eyes everywhere. If we could see the breach right away, they wouldn’t have time to mess with anything.”

“And, that much surveillance over that distance and up in these mountains is expensive. Got it.” All the pieces are coming together, and where his problem lies. This is a not-for-profit company that needs big profits, and fast.

He nods, leading me out of the building and back up toward the house. “What about that far building?” I point down past the others, the one he didn’t show me.

“It’s where we keep all the strays.” I raise my eyebrow athim, so he continues. “People see the word sanctuary and use it as a dumping ground. We find all sorts of animals abandoned at our gate. Dogs, chickens, goats, and worse. They stay over there, away from the bear enclosures until we find them a new, permanent home.”

“How do you get to the bears?”

“Trails cut through the woods and lead to the bear fences at each corner. North, South, East, and West are how we navigate them. It’s a grid that’ll always lead you back here eventually. Notyou, specifically. You shouldn’t go near the enclosures for any reason.”

My mood deflates, but I try to hide it. The glimpse of the fence that I can see is just past the main yard and barns through the tree line.

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