Behind him, something no longer bothers to hide. He runs.
And that is why there are no tracks. A man running for his life,
with something right behind him that moves through the trees as if the ground were optional.
The chase ends at the edge of a cliff.
Logan, cornered, climbs a spruce in a desperate attempt to escape.
But the creature climbs the neighboring tree,
gripping the trunk with terrifying force, cutting off his only way out.
Maybe Logan slashed with his knife.
Maybe he cut a length of his tent line, his only idea of a weapon.
It wasn’t enough. Anna covered her mouth, tears falling.
“He fought. He fought, Frank.” “I know,” Frank said softly.
But a question remained, and it was the one that haunted them most.
Why the bones? “Predators eat their prey,” Frank said, pacing.
“Or drag it off. Leopards even stash kills in trees.
