He got out and crept towards the noise.

The low growling rose in pitch and frequency. Heart pounding, he spread apart the bushes enough to see. There in a small clearing leapt a fisher, its rear paw caught in the jaws of a steel trap. The fisher valiantly tried to pull away, only to be slammed back down again by its nemesis chain.

The thick metal chain led from the trap jaws to a hefty nail in a hemlock. There was no conceivable way the fisher would ever pull free. Although the Mustelidae family was known for its pound-for-pound toughness, the fisher simply didn’t have the mass to pull free. After a few seconds, the fisher bit its own paw in desperation, and Matt realized his presence was not helping. He stepped behind the trees, allowing only his face to be seen. The fisher’s black eyes locked onto him as it bared its teeth and growled. Matt was impressed by the sleek fisher, a bullet of a face pinned back by symmetrical ears and offset by white teeth made for puncturing rodents. The fisher continued its desperate maneuvers, darting and twisting with the speed of a minnow, its thick tail curling and uncurling. A series of offset claw swipes ravaged the hemlock.

No reason at all for this, Matt thought. Trappers were supposed to check their traps every twenty-four hours. He guessed the fisher had been here for at least a day.

He shuddered at the thought of the trapper sitting in his house, slugging down a Pabst Blue Ribbon and watching Judge Judy while this animal suffered. So he marched to his truck and took a flathead screwdriver from under the seat. As Matt returned to the trapped fisher, he removed his flannel and held it out in front of him while speaking quietly to the fisher.

It’s okay, he said. You’re going to be just fine. We’ll get you out of here and you can go about your day.

He had to wonder what the fisher was thinking as he crept closer. How would he feel in this situation? Not so great. Terrified, actually. Without delay, Matt leapt forward and shielded the fisher with the flannel.

Growling, spitting, hissing below the fabric.

He did the only thing he could and sat on the animal—allowing just enough room for the fisher to breathe. Then Matt located the trapped paw by feeling the length of steel chain under the flannel. The fisher growled from deep within its lungs. There was no time to lose. Although wild animals were tough, handling them often produced erratic effects. Soon Matt found the paw, moist and bloody from the trap. After peeling the flannel back just enough, he jammed the screwdriver between the trap’s iron jaws. The paw flopped out, swollen and bloody. The angry fisher stretched its back legs and kicked with both paws at once.

He took a deep breath. One, two, three . . . go!