Her cub must have meat. The cub can’t come to the kill, so the kill must go to the cub. Tikki had three cubs. One was flawed in some obscure way and died shortly after birth. Another was killed by hellish dogs breathing fire, dogs she systematically hunted down and slaughtered. The third, the smallest of the litter, was hurt by the dogs and seemed slow to recover. Since then, she has kept it in the old cabin where her supplies are stashed, where animals cannot get at it, and where, wrapped in the hides of dead dogs, it will be warm.