The female otter gazed at him, all slick head and dripping fur. Two baby otters appeared below her—one of them licking its paws. The mother sniffed and puckered her nose. Her whiskers emanated beyond the profile of her face, offering a cartoonish appearance. The two babies rolled and frolicked with each other at her feet, making snarky weasel noises. The mother otter made two sharp clicking calls that drew the immediate attention of her family, and she wobbled out of sight. Her babies followed her, their whip-like tails swooshing back and forth, and then gone.

He checked his leg and noticed the bleeding had stopped. He wondered why the otter bit him, why she caused him pain.

To wake you up, Matthew, the voice said. They wanted to wake you up.

Matt shook his head, ashamed at his behavior under the water. He wasn’t a quitter, but the peace was way too much to resist.

I know, the little voice said. I wanted it too.

Matt pushed through the wall of spruce that circled the island. There was maybe twenty by forty feet of dry land, but it had a sense of privacy. A big hemlock lay across the soft soil, missed by the loggers. Matt stepped on top of the log, looking for a place to sit and dry off. Halfway along the log he noticed a hole dug into the earth below it. He bent over, flipped on his headlamp He’d purchased the waterproof unit because his father had always told him, buy cheap five times, buy quality once), and peered into the hole. Lesson learned, dad. He thought. Thank you.

The hole led to a bigger chamber and he realized he was looking at a black bear den. No breathing sounds came from inside as far as he could tell. But then again, he wasn’t a bear tracker or anything, so who knows what could be down there.

Might be a good place to hide, he thought, as the opening was wide enough for him to squeeze in. He had no doubt the Being would look for him in the bog. None.

As if on cue, a roar echoed across the landscape, closer than before.

Get in the hole, Matthew! the little voice said.

He returned to the bank and retrieved the floating milk jug with the stick. Then he used the stick to smear the muddy bank, wiping away handprints and footprints. He returned to the den jug in hand and crawled on his belly, grunting as his ribcage thumped into the dirt. His headlamp revealed gnarled, white roots in the ceiling, but a smooth floor. Once through the hole he shifted to his knees. Earthworms and aphids seethed from the walls, but they did not bother him. He wondered if this was Ernie’s den—if this was how he’d avoided the hunters and trappers all these years.