Bob’s breath fogs in the cooling air. The creek murmurs over stones worn smooth by decades of meltwater. He doesn’t move. His fingers hover two inches above the print—five toes, each tipped with a claw that dug deep into the mud, then dragged backward as whatever made it pushed off into a run. Petunia whines. It’s a sound Bob has heard maybe three times in his life: once at the vet, once during a thunderstorm, and once when a stranger pulled into their driveway and didn’t leave. This is worse. Her tail is tucked so tight it disappears into the fur of her belly. She won’t look at the print. She stares at the treeline beyond the creek, where the cottonwoods go black against the fading sky. “It’s okay, girl,” Bob whispers, but his voice cracks. He pulls his hand back and wipes it on his jeans. The print isn’t just large. It’s wrong. The spread of the toes, the depth of the heel—it’s nothing from any field guide Johnny lent him. Not coyote. Not bear. Not even the mountain lion tracks he’d studied last summer after one took Old Man Harlow’s goat. He stands slowly, knees popping. Petunia presses against his leg, her whole body trembling. Bob looks across the creek to where the bank rises into a tangle of blackberry bushes. Something snapped a branch there. Recently. The white of fresh wood glows in the dusk. “We should go back.” Petunia doesn’t need telling twice. She turns and starts up the path toward town, glancing over her shoulder every few steps to make sure Bob is following. He does, but he stops at the top of the rise. One last look. The creek is already lost in shadow. The print will be gone by morning—washed away or filled in by whoever doesn’t want it seen. Bob pats his pocket. He didn’t bring his phone. Didn’t bring anything. Just his dog and a feeling that the ground under Okanogan isn’t as solid as it was yesterday. From the treeline, a low sound. Not an animal. Not quite. It hangs in the air for a second too long, then stops. Petunia barks once. Sharp. Urgent. Bob runs.