Excerpt from Black Bear by Trina Moyles, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

I began to learn that addiction isn't about individual strength, or will, nor a reflection of moral character. It's a chronic, relapsing disease of the brain. Even if Brendan was self-aware and recognizing the ways cocaine was destroying the relationships in his life—and I'm sure that he was—the disease of addiction was making it exceedingly difficult for him to change his behaviors.

I learned that Brendan was hardly alone. Crack cocaine is the most-consumed illegal substance in Canada. Men who work in the trades, including the oil and gas industry, are even more susceptible to drug addiction.

As I reflected back on the decade we'd spent apart, I began to feel increasingly compassionate for the loneliness—and shame—my brother must've been contending with.

"I'm proud of you for staying clean," I told him awkwardly during a visit in Edmonton, unsure how he'd respond. "I know it can't be easy," I added.

He wouldn't look me in the eye, but nodded his head.

* * *

I began to question the story I was telling myself about the bear as aggressive, dangerous—a threat. I'd interpreted every behavior—even their lack of fear of me—as dominant and aggressive.

I began to see the flaws in mutual avoidance as a strategy to coexist. It felt a bit like a misnomer, or yet another euphemism to placate what had really been going on. I'd turned myself into the aggressor in an attempt to make the bear afraid. What was even remotely mutual about that? The exchange between us wasn't about mutualism, but antagonism.

For years, I'd criticized how the Alberta oil sands and other extractive industries had destroyed native habitat, contaminated the environment, and displaced wildlife from the landscape. How were my actions, standing on the hillside with the shotgun in my hands any different? I'd come very close to pulling the trigger on that bear. Maybe the real problem wasn't the mother bear's lack of fear of people, but my own fear that was preventing me from seeing the larger story.

* * *

Late one evening, I saw the mother bear and cubs closer than usual. The family had stepped beyond the willows into the clearing, the no-go zone. I hesitated, wondering, should I scare them away?

The cubs pounced on the heads of late season dandelions with bravado. One tiptoed up behind its sibling and nipped it square on the rump. The cub bawled, bounced a few steps back, then turned to swat a tiny paw at its sibling. I laughed, recalling the same way my brother used to tease and egg me on when we were kids.

The mother bear did not look up at me. Mosquitoes swarmed the bear in a halo of light. One of the cubs sprinted to their mother's side and disappeared beneath her shaggy fur. Suddenly, the mother collapsed into the grass, rolled over on her back, and opened her hind legs like a frog. The cub climbed up on their mother's belly and began gnawing at one of her six engorged teats. In a hurry, the second cub galloped over and seized a nipple. Their heads worked up and down as they fed. The mother lay back. They were so close that I could hear the rhythmic sound of the cubs drinking their mother's milk. A faint motor-like hum, a steady purr of contentment.

I stood there in awe, mesmerized, only meters away from the family. That the bear tolerated me there, watching her nurse, defied the dominant belief I'd been taught that bears are afraid of people. The mother bear beetling on her back, legs splayed wide open. The cubs, feasting on her milk.

I was suddenly conscious that I was breaking the rules I'd established with the bears. The mother bear had set foot beyond the clearing, the line I'd drawn, if only in my own mind.

It occurred to me that, perhaps, the mother bear's choice for proximity wasn't about aggression, or dominance, but a strategy for raising her young. Maybe she was using the fire tower as a kind of nursery, a protective buffer from predators.

* * *

Proximity ignites empathy. When I visited my brother's family's home in Edmonton, he insisted on teaching me how to gently change my niece's diaper. He was constantly cooing to her, praising her, and loving her. Brendan was his most tender self with his daughter. Fatherhood gave him a sense of purpose and belonging. He stood taller because of his family's love. My brother had begun to dream about the future again, one he insisted he wanted me to be a part of, and I began to imagine what that future could look like.

Excerpted from Black Bear by Trina Moyles. Copyright © 2026 by Trina Moyles. Excerpted by permission of Pegasus Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.