Wendy let out a surprised laugh. It pushed some of the tension from her lungs. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She turned the key and the truck’s engine roared to life. “If he finds you, there won’t be enough left of you to mount.”

When Wendy pulled into the driveway, she told Peter to meet her at the back door. It would be easier to sneak him upstairs from there.

As soon as she stepped inside, she saw her mother lying on the couch. The TV was still on, the volume down low. Wendy crept forward to see that her mother’s eyes were closed behind her glasses, her chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm.

Well, at least she was asleep. Wendy wondered if her mom had been trying to stay awake until she got home.

The evening news caught her attention. A reporter stood in the woods with a floodlight illuminating his face. Behind him was the hunting shack Peter had been staying in, blocked off with police tape. Washed with bright light, it looked tiny and unassuming compared to when she had seen it in person. Men and women in police uniforms carried out items in small plastic bags. Some of them examined something on the ground, others were dusting the doorframe for fingerprints.

The volume was off, but a marquee scrolled the story of what she could already tell was happening:

… HASN’T BEEN IN ACTIVE USE FOR 6 MONTHS. CLOTHES, FOOD, AND TRACES OF RECENT INHABITANTS. WOOD-BURNING STOVE HAS BEEN RECENTLY USED. TWO SETS OF FOOTPRINTS INSIDE HUNTING SHACK AND AROUND EXTERIOR. POLICE TRYING TO FIND FINGERPRINTS OR DNA EVIDENCE. CURRENTLY, NO SIGN OF MISSING CHILDREN …

Wendy wondered if her dad had been part of the search party to discover the shack. She and Peter were lucky they had gotten out of there when they did.

Frustration worked its way through her. The police were getting distracted from the real culprit. They were losing valuable time tracing Peter’s path when they should be on the hunt for the shadow. But how could they even do that? She and Peter were having a hard enough time tracking it down, and at least they knew what they were up against.

Quietly, Wendy crossed the kitchen to the back door.

Peter was there, waiting patiently.

She unlocked the sliding glass door and slowly pulled it open, just wide enough for him to squeeze through. Wendy pressed her finger to her lips. She didn’t want to risk making any noise that would wake her mom.

Peter’s face was screwed up tight, his brow furrowed. He pinched his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger. It struck Wendy how much he looked like Michael when he wanted to come inside after stomping in puddles, but knew he would get in trouble for tracking mud on the floor.

Wendy had to pluck impatiently at his sleeve before he finally slunk inside.