I was obsessed with a mountain lion and carried a canister of mace in my pocket against the eventuality that my curiosity might provoke him to violence, but it would not come as a surprise if, from his point of view, having me around was akin to having food in the pantry.  I thought, at first, Elaine was one of his kills.  It was summer, the year after my college graduation.  The scent of her decomposition was carried up through the ponderosa forest on the breeze.  I zigzagged down the mountain.