Share In my hands is a squirrel-sicle, or close to it. I’m standing in a walk-in fridge, bathed in red light, cradling a rigid, furry body nearly as cold as ice. The thirteen-lined ground squirrel is hibernating and deep in torpor. It feels surprisingly dense and hard as the chill seeps from the tiny mammal through a latex glove and to my palm. In this state, I’m told the squirrels still breathe two or three times per minute, but despite squinting to catch the animal in my hand mid-inhalation, I…
