The first dart sank clean into the bear's shoulder.

We'd gotten lucky.

The wind had dropped, the snow crust was firm,

and the animal had wandered close enough to the coast for us to approach without risking thin ice.

Five months into the season, we'd all develop the same quiet rhythm of professionals who'd

done this too many times to get nervous. DART, dose, weight, move in, measure, collar,

release. Routine. Only this one wasn't routine.

The bear swayed, shuddered once, then lay down without a sound.

Its bulk flattened the snow, steam rising faintly from its fur.

I gave the signal, and we crunched forward on snow shoes, our breath loud in the still air. Up close, it was a healthy

male, big paws, clean coat, thick with fat for the winter, textbook specimen. I'd already

pulled the kit bag open when Amara crouched by his neck and frowned. Uh, guys?

At first I thought she was pointing at scar tissue, maybe a healed wound.

Then I saw the band of metal half buried in fur.

The bear already had a collar,

and it wasn't one of ours.

This was old, brass gone green with corrosion, pitted and scarred,

as if it had been on there a long time.

The edges weren't machined,

they'd been hammered into shape by hand, uneven but strong, riveted

shut in a way that looked impossible to remove without breaking the animal's neck. And there,

etched into the metal, was a date. 1847.

...