The quality was awful, but he dug them out.
Then Anna handed him the photographs from the cliff: the scarred trunk,
the crushed, claw-pierced dents. Silas’s face went the color of ash.
His hands shook. He said only three words,
so softly the wind nearly stole them: “It’s still here.”
That night, in the motel room, Anna couldn’t sleep.
She laid the pieces out on the bedspread: the silhouette.
The knocking. The tracks. The marks. The bones.
Slowly, a picture formed. And she cried as she realized what it meant.
“Frank,” she said, “I think I know what happened to him.”
The evening of September 2nd, 2015. Logan is setting up camp.
He’s relaxed, humming, snapping photos for his readers.
Then, from somewhere deep in the trees, comes a sound: thud…
thud… thud. He freezes. He isn’t afraid. He’s curious.
What is that? An unknown bird? Some strange animal behavior?
