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light.
    Pale.
    Ghostly.
    Smattering of stars.
    He sits shivering after taking the last sip of water from the bottle in his sling pack. The full moon is bright enough to cast shadows, but diluted, knocked down several stops like studio lights with scrims, by scattered clouds and a thick, smoke-like fog.
    Snap.
    Breaking twig.
    Leaves rustling.
    Stop.
    Approaching footsteps.
    Ready to run.
    Willing to fight.
    Relief.
    He lets out a quiet but audible sigh as a small gray fox prances out of the fog. The dog-like creature—gray-brown on top, rust and white underneath—is barely three feet long. Out foraging for food, the animal doesn’t react to Remington’s presence.
    Instinctively, he reaches for his camera.
    Stop. No. Too dangerous. Can’t risk the flash revealing his whereabouts to the murderer or his friends—if they’ve joined him. If they’re going to.
    Fog thick as he’s ever seen anywhere, the entire forest seems on fire, jagged outlines of trees etched in the mist, their tops disappearing as if into mountaintop clouds.
    More footfalls.
    The small fox darts away as a man steps out of the mist.
    Remington sits perfectly still. Breaths shallow. Eyes unblinking.
    The broad, alpine man has long, unkempt brown hair, a burly beard, and lumbers along in enormous work boots, radio in one massive mitt, a blued Smith and Wesson.357 magnum in the other.
    I’m about to die.
    Though heading straight toward the tree base, the man seems not to have seen Remington yet—perhaps because of the darkness or fog, or maybe because of the leaves he has gathered around himself for cover, but most likely because of the man’s height.
    Pausing just before reaching what’s left of the cypress tree, the man turns and surveys the area, his mammoth boots sweeping the leaves aside and making large divots in the damp ground.
    Before Remington had moved away from home, he seemed to know everybody in the area. Now, he’s continually amazed at how few people he recognizes, and though the giant standing in front of him resembles many of the corn-fed felons he grew up with—guys with names like Skinner, Squatch, Bear, and Big—he’s distinctive enough to identify if he knew him.
    Remington jumps as the man’s radio beeps.
    —Anything?
    —Not a goddam.
    —Okay. Keep looking.
    —That sounded like an order.
    —Sorry big fellow. Please is always implied. I meant,
Would
you keep looking
please?
    —We could do this all night and never find him.
    —Yeah?
    —Or we could get the dogs out here and make short work of this shit.
    —Dogs mean involving more people.
    —We don’t catch him a whole lot more people will be involved.
    —I hear you. Let’s give it a little while longer, then we’ll call Spider. Either way, camera boy won’t leave these woods alive.
    —Make sure Arl and Donnie Paul split up. We need to cover as much ground as possible.
    T hat’s four he knows of. The calm murderer, the big bastard in front of him, Arlington, and Donnie Paul. Are there others?
    When the big man finishes his conversation, he pockets the radio, unzips his jeans, and begins to urinate on the ground, the acidic, acrid odor wafting over to find Remington’s nostrils. Finishing, he zips, clears his throat, spits, and begins to trudge away.
    A t least four men.
    Out here to kill him.
    Dogs.
    If they use dogs on him, the river is his only hope. Got to find it.
    Where the hell am I?
    He quietly pulls the compass out of his pocket.
    It’s smashed. Useless. Must have happened on one of his falls or when he crashed into the tree.
    Know where you’re going.
    Use a map and a compass.
    Always tell someone where you’re going.
    Never go alone.
    Always carry the essentials.
    If you get lost, stay put.
    Make yourself seen and heard.
    He thinks of all the tactics he’s read about while studying to be a wildlife photographer. When traveling in the woods, always know where you’re going, never go alone, use a compass, and carry the