After the last, cold gulp, he held his breath and listened for the sirens. There . . . far off to the east, so faint. Without thinking he leapt over a snag and onto a spongy island of beaked sedge. Out before him stretched small, grassy islands spiked with at least one dead tree and surrounded by patches of stagnant water. The fresh scent of sweet grass permeated the air, with an undertone of muck. If he could travel from island to island, he should be all right.

Matt jumped, rattling the matches in his flannel pocket and sloshing the water in the jug. His foot sunk into a spongy island and he yanked it out.

Much better than a splash, he thought.

He had no idea how deep some of these water pockets were. He might end up soaking his boots or sucking water into his lungs as he sunk in over his head.

The still, black water reflected the dead snags and grasses in monochrome. Tiny ripples pinged out from the islands with every step.

The ground is very sensitive here, Matthew, the little voice said. When the time comes, you best be very still.

After two tough leaps, he caught his breath on an island, hands on his hips. Dead branches snapped to the west. He went to his knees, peering out between blades of sweet grass. Steps approached, and he felt them in the ground. Two white-tailed deer emerged, feeding on willow and bog birch. One of the deer sported a trophy set of antlers—the kind that misguided hunters spent thousands of dollars trying to find. Matt heard the deer chewing and grinding, their powerful jaws turning the vegetation into pulp.

He held his breath and listened for the sirens. They were no more. At last he stood and the deer bounded away from him, leaping from island to island, making a mockery of his progress. Their cotton white tails flagged high, warning others, but there was only him.

He could not hope to move as fine as they did across the bog. Nevertheless he aimed for the next island, clearing the water with as much grace as a human possessed.

Matthew, keep your ears open, the little voice said.

He had no doubt the Being would come looking for him after finishing with the patrol car. It had already gone to great lengths to pull him back into the orchard, following the strict radius of ACCEPTABLE MOVEMENT as he’d come to know it.

How could the Being even find me in the bog? he wondered. If it found him in this freaking tangle, with this head start, then he truly had no hope. He glanced up at the dead trees which now resembled crucifixes.

You know the Puller will come into the bog, Matthew, the little voice said. It can find what it wants, when it wants. The question is how do you make it difficult?