Malia climbed into her bark-covered tower before dawn. The narrow slits gave her a clean view of the trail. She wanted one thing: to name the man her foxes feared before he killed someone. She opened her woven bag and set her log book on her knee. The russet fox with green eyes pressed against her boot. He had gone still twelve nights running. Tonight he was tighter than that. His ears did not twitch. His tail did not move. Malia wrote the time and the wind direction. Then she waited. Footsteps came up the trail. A man stopped at the creek, beside the old petrified tree wrapped in dark vines. He stood inside its shadow and watched the mill road. Malia smelled it through her open slit. Rot under something clean. Her stomach turned. She lifted her small field glass. The man pulled a folded paper from his coat and checked it against his watch. A schedule. He traced a line with one gloved finger, then tapped the spot where the mail carrier always crossed at noon. He smiled. Then he turned and looked straight at her tower. Malia froze. He could not see her, but he had felt something. He stepped off the trail and started up the slope toward her hide. The fox at her boot finally moved, fast, into the brush. Malia closed her book and reached for her knife. Her watching days were over.