Mason

Bigger than mine.

Maybe by a full size.

Wider, too.

Could be someone ahead of us, I said.

Mason's eyes flicked up.

Why would they be ahead of us and still be leaving fresh prints?

I looked at the mud around the print and realized what he meant.

the edges of the imprint were sharp the water in it hadn't filled in yet in this kind of wet prints soften fast these were new we walked again we found another print then another not constant not like someone was marching in a straight line

but like they were stepping off the trail and back on, circling around, then returning.

That afternoon we reached a stretch where the trail crossed a small clearing.

Not a meadow, just a place where the canopy had opened after old blowdown, and you could see the gray sky.

The clearing was ringed with downed logs and tangles of branches.

The trail cut straight through it.

Halfway across, Mason stopped so abruptly I almost walked into him.

He pointed.

On the far side of the clearing, partially hidden behind a thick trunk, was a person.

At first I saw only a shape, a shoulder, a head.

Then the person leaned slightly, just enough to look at us.

The distance wasn't huge, maybe 80 yards, close enough that I could see their clothing was dark, a jacket that blended into the tree bark.

Close enough that I could see they weren't wearing bright colors.