Beauregard pressed his snout against the map spread across the wooden table. The worn paper showed roads leading out of Puddlewick and into the wild territories beyond. His thick finger traced a route heading north. Somewhere out there, his wife was alive. He knew it in his bones. Three months had passed since she disappeared. The sheriff had given up after two weeks. But Beauregard wouldn't stop. He rolled up the map, tucked it into his overalls, and grabbed his hat. The search would take him through swamps and forests he'd never seen. It didn't matter. He'd cross every dangerous mile until he found her. The morning sun climbed higher as Beauregard walked down the dirt path. His boots kicked up small clouds of dust with each step. A rustic trading post sat ahead, built from old wood with vines climbing up its walls. He needed supplies before heading north. Inside, he could ask the merchants about strangers passing through. Someone might have seen her. He pushed through the door and stepped into the dim interior. Shelves lined the walls, packed with rope, dried food, and tools. A merchant looked up from behind the counter. Beauregard pulled out a small drawing of his wife from his pocket. His voice came out rough but steady. He would find answers here, or he would keep moving until he did. The merchant shook his head at the drawing. No one matching that description had come through in months. Beauregard bought dried meat, a coil of rope, and a flask of water. He paid with the last of his coins and walked back outside. At the edge of town, a weathered signpost stood where the road split into three paths. The wood was rotting, and the carved letters were hard to read. He squinted at the faded words. One route led north through the marshlands. Another went east into the forest. The third curved west toward the mountains. Beauregard pulled out his map and checked the markings again. North was his best chance. He adjusted his hat and started walking. Each step took him farther from home and closer to finding her. By noon, Beauregard reached a ramshackle hut on the outskirts of Puddlewick. The dark wooden walls had holes punched through them. Broken windows let the wind whistle through the empty rooms. But it sat right at the northern edge of town, perfect for planning his search. He pushed open the crooked door and stepped inside. Dust covered the floor. A broken table leaned against one wall. He set down his supplies and spread his map out on the sturdy floorboards. This would be his base while he gathered information and tracked leads. From here, he could venture into the territories and return when he needed rest. Beauregard looked out through one of the broken windows toward the northern horizon. His wife was out there somewhere. He would bring her home.