She’s dawdling, lost in her own thoughts. The snap of a twig somewhere close brings her back, and she looks down at the food in her hand, suddenly nervous. Far off, down in the valley, something cries out—an animal cry, it must be—and Maeve jumps a little despite herself.

Remember to bring a flashlight tomorrow, she’s thinking when a beam flips on behind her. For a second Maeve freezes, her clothes sweat-damp against her skin.

“Or you could use this one right now.” A man’s voice.

It’s cold and dry and dark, the trail washed out in the new glare, a layer of fresh snow sparkling ahead of her. When she turns to face the light, there’s someone there, a silhouette. But no orange hunter’s cap, no camouflage. It’s not Dan, the woodcutter they saw in the morning.

She brings a hand up to shield her eyes. “I said that out loud?” she says—out loud. “About the flashlight?”

“You did.”

“I didn’t see you. I didn’t know you were there.”

He’s tall and lean-looking, the shadows catching the contours of his face. She steps out of the light and her eyes adjust. Blond—she can see that much. Hair cropped close at the sides, a full beard. Instead of a jacket, he’s wearing a lined flannel shirt, red and black plaid, with snaps.

The light dips a little, and she sees that it’s only the torch app from his phone. He tries to catch her eye.

“I didn’t expect to hear a voice in the trees,” he says. “So we’re even.”

The cry comes again—a cry and a whistle all at once, dilating—and Maeve spins as though the thing might be right there behind her. Something about it makes her anxious, pulls some cord at her center. She thinks of the deer the night before, but this is different. More piercing. A whittled yelp. High and urgent.

“Elk,” the man says, tipping his chin toward the dark. She can see him better now: mid-thirties and good-looking in a groomed way. Like an image out of a mountaineering catalog, at home in his skin. “It’s the rut, this time of year. You know what that means?”

“It sounds like a wraith.”

He steps closer. “City girl, hey?”

He has an easy smile, a voice that pulls you in. Maeve leans into her hip, and he stays put, just holding the beam on her. Not quite in her eyes; as though she is a thing he is examining. A specimen found in the woods. In his other hand he’s holding something, a machine or tool.

Not a tool. An antler?

“It looks like an antler,” he says. “Or a piece of one. Doesn’t it?”

Maeve steps back. She almost jumps.