Whisp Rivers found the third snare before noon, and this one already held a rabbit. The wire had cinched around a back leg above the small hoof. The rabbit's horns scraped the dirt as it kicked. Its long tail was matted with blood. Whisp knelt slowly, the way he had knelt for the fox kit years ago, and drew the pruning knife from his belt. He spoke softly while he worked, sliding the leaf-etched blade under the wire so the edge faced away from the leg. The rabbit screamed once. Then the wire snapped, and the animal bolted into the ferns on three good legs. Whisp stayed crouched and counted. Three snares today. Two yesterday. None of them had been this deep in the forest a month ago. He knew the trapper by his work, not his face — the loops were tied the same way each time, set along the runs the small creatures used at dawn. Whisp had spent years walking these woods alone, sitting with dying deer, releasing what he could. He had lost a nest of chicks once while tending a wounded buck, and he still carried that. Now the wire was moving toward the parts of the forest he had thought were safe, and any creature he hoped to reach might already be ruined by the time he found it. He walked the rest of the line that afternoon and cut every snare he saw. He counted eleven. By the last one, his hands were shaking, and he understood that cutting wire was not enough. The trapper would set more tomorrow. The wounded would keep coming, and he had nowhere to put them. He had been carrying limp animals home to his single room for years, laying them on towels, losing most of them by morning. He thought of the clearing past the stream where the light came in soft through the alders. Flat ground. Good water. Far from any road the trapper used. That night Whisp drew the building on the back of a seed catalog. One long room with wide windows. A covered porch where a creature could rest outside without fear. Pens in the shade. A door painted a color an animal could learn to trust. He wrote a name across the top of the page so he would not talk himself out of it before morning. Soft Paws. In the kitchen, the rabbit he had freed at noon was eating clover from a dish on the floor, favoring the cut leg but using it. Whisp watched it chew. Then he folded the drawing into his pocket and went out to measure the clearing by lantern.