Ernie turned the paper around so Jaeger, who was curled up on the rug next to the chair, could see. “That’s one of them Brock kids,” he said. “The biggest one of the three boys…name of Argyle, or…,” he scanned the newspaper article, “yeah, Argus, that’s it. Strong boy, not the best-looking kid—looks a bit like you, Jaeger, but bigger. Much bigger.”

Jaeger responded by raising his head slightly and letting out a sound that was halfway between a groan and a chuff. That was one of the things Ernie liked most about Jaeger—he was easy to talk to. Not like the previous dog, Hanna, who’d been his wife’s dog and not much of a conversationalist.

Ernie sat down in his chair, eased it back into a reclining position, and read further about how Argus, with the help of his brother and sister, had found a lost girl in the forest and brought her all the way to the hospital in Redstone, probably saving her life.

“Well, good for him,” Ernie said aloud. Then he leaned right, to speak to Jaeger. “I always thought they were strange kids. You know, like there was something off about them…but then they go and rescue some lost kid in the forest.” He sniffed. “I guess they can’t be all bad, eh, Jaeger?”

Jaeger barked.

“Easy, boy,” Ernie said. “When I said they can’t be all bad, that means they’re good.”

But Jaeger barked again.

Ernie put down the paper, concerned now because the dog wasn’t usually so chatty. “What is it?”

The dog got up off the rug and looked toward the rear door.

“You hear something, Jaeger? What’s out there?”

A low growl began to rise up from somewhere deep within the dog’s body.

“Are those raccoons clawing through my compost again?” Ernie said, with a sigh. “Or maybe they’re trying to get into the stable, huh?”

Jaeger growled.

Years ago, Ernie owned a few horses and had made a living renting them out to tourists to take on trail rides during the summer months. But since his wife had died, he’d gotten rid of all but a single horse—an old nag he’d named Sir Brian Hewlitt, after a knight he’d read about as a child—using the empty space in the stable to raise a few rabbits.

“I don’t care what that Ranger Brock’s got to say about preservin’ wildlife,” Ernie said, scowling. “If them raccoons can’t stay away from my animals, I’m gonna set me some traps and shoot the damn things. Raccoons ain’t no wildlife, they’re just pests. Plain and simple.”

The dog was up on all fours now, eyes fixed on the back door of the cabin.