I shot the buck just after dusk beneath a stand of ash trees mottled with rot.

The sound of the rifle cracked through the quiet in that empty stretch of forest,

and for a second everything stilled.

Then the insects resumed.

It wasn't sport.

It never was.

The thing limped when it moved.

Back legs swollen at the knee.

Left antlers split and jagged at the base.

Eyes already clouding.

From 50 feet away, I could smell the sickness.

I've worked enough control jobs to know the signs of chronic wasting disease,

CWD for short, before the field tests confirmed it.

Wasting is slow. It hollows them out from the inside,

leaves them standing in creeks with their mouths open, drinking nothing.

The state's mandate was clear.

Any deer with visible symptoms was to be put down and reported.

I approached with gloves on, took the usual post-mortem photos, recorded the GPS coordinates, marked the tag number, R-dash-7769, clipped beneath the skinfold near the right shoulder.

Standard insert, deep enough that scavengers wouldn't reach it easily.

The retrieval team was scheduled to arrive by morning to haul the body in for testing

and disposal. I stayed long enough to watch the flies settle. Then I hiked back through the

thinning trees and drove to the ranger's lot where I kept my temporary logbook., entry made, time recorded, another task finished.

...