Mason

And every time I thought it was done, it would start again.

The same rhythm, like someone practicing walking in the dark and checking whether we were still awake.

I finally unzipped the tent just enough to look out.

The fire had burned down to coals.

The clearing was gray.

I didn't see anything at first, and then I saw the outline of antlers behind a tree, higher than they should have been, angled so I couldn't tell if it was facing me or not.

I held the opening with two fingers, barely breathing, and the antlers moved, not away, not toward, just a small adjustment that made it clear it knew I was looking.

In the morning we found tracks where there shouldn't have been tracks.

That sounds simple, until you're standing there, pointing at dirt, trying to explain to your own brain why it feels personal.

There were hoof prints near the creek, clean and deep from the damp ground.

And then there were marks beside them that looked like handprints pressed into mud.

Not a paw.

Not a raccoon.

Fingers.

Spread.

The spacing was wrong for a person walking normally.

Like whoever made them didn't put weight where weight should be.

Caleb crouched down with that half-laugh people do when they're uncomfortable.

And he said it must have been an elk and we were seeing things.

I wanted to agree, but my eyes kept going back to where the marks changed from hoof to hand, like a sentence changing language mid-word.