Page 3 of Easy, Tiger

The overlook opens unexpectedly—the forest parting to reveal the entire valley spread below like a living map. Red Pine nestles in the distance, smoke rising from chimneys in thin, gray threads. Mountains roll away toward the horizon in waves of scarlet and gold, each ridge fainter than the last until they dissolve into autumn haze.

After I ease myself onto a boulder, I extract my sketchbook, my fingers moving with a rhythm that precedes conscious thought. The view invites a level of documentation that requires total honesty, compelling me to embrace the raw reality of the landscape and the steady, unfiltered exactness of pencil against paper.

The first strokes feel rusty, uncertain. But as the drawing takes shape, a treeline flowing into a valley and shadows defining depth, muscle memory resurfaces. My hand remembers what my confidence forgot.

This is the artist I used to be, before the doubt crept in and second-guessed every line I drew.

The pencil moves across the page with increasing confidence, each stroke capturing another piece of the valley's geometry. A hawk circles far below, riding thermals that rise from the sun-warmed rocks. Sketching its spiraling path, I discern how the wings barely move as it searches for prey.

The silence on this mountain provides a stark, peaceful alternative to the chaotic atmosphere that once surrounded my career. Clarity emerges from this quiet, inviting me to immerse myself completely in the act of drawing, where my only concern is the pressure of the pencil and the changing patterns of light upon the ground.

Flipping to a fresh page, I attempt the distant ridgeline, working to capture how each mountain fold creates its own microclimate of light. The furthest peaks blur into atmospheric perspective, their details softened by miles of autumn air. My hand remembers the technique of building depth through value rather than line weight, letting the paper's texture suggest the forest's complexity.

A chipmunk emerges from the boulder's base, cheeks stuffed with acorns. It studies me with curious eyes before deciding I pose no threat to its winter preparations. It becomes a tiny punctuation mark of life in the corner of my composition, set against the geological permanence.

The sun slides lower, painting the valley in honey and amber. Shadows stretch longer between the trees, and the temperature drops enough to make me grateful for my flannel jacket. Time to head back before the trail becomes treacherous in failing light.

Reluctant to leave this sanctuary but knowing the mountain demands respect, I pack my supplies thoughtfully. The descent proves easier on my legs but harder on my attention—loose rocks and hidden roots wait to trip the unwary.

Halfway down, something stirs in my peripheral vision. A shadow among shadows, moving parallel to the trail through the dense hemlock grove. Pausing to check the treeline, nothing emerges except the natural sway of branches in the evening breeze.

"Probably a deer," I say, though my voice lacks conviction in the growing dusk.

Deer move differently, though, more gracefully, less purposefully. This shadow had weight to it, a purposeful quality that sets my nerves on edge.

I resume walking, but my artist's eye—trained to pick up on what others miss—keeps guiding toward the forest. There is movement again, pacing me from perhaps fifty yards off the trail. Too large for a raccoon, too sure-footed for a bear foraging through the underbrush.

My fingers find the pencil in my pocket, clutching it like a talisman. The logical part of my brain insists it's wildlife, nothing more. Red Pine sits in the middle of the wilderness; of course, animals spy hikers pass through their territory.

A chill crawls up my spine, primal and insistent. This is the cold, intentional attention of something honing in on me, weighing me—raising every hair on my arms with an intent far beyond the casual curiosity of a deer catching my scent.

Maintaining composure, I quicken my pace as my boots find surer purchase on the familiar trail. The cabin's warm glow appears through the trees ahead, windows lit like beacons in the deepening twilight.

Behind me, the forest suspends its breath.

2

NOLAN

The final coat of polyurethane gleams under my workshop lights as I ease away from the dining table. Six months of evenings devoted to book-matched walnut, the grain sweeping seamlessly across the surface. My fingers glide over the edge where mortise meets tenon, checking for any imperfection that might betray the joint's presence.

"Perfectionist."

Owen's voice travels from the doorway, where he waits against the frame with his ranger uniform bearing the dust of a long day in the field.

Setting down the brush, I turn toward him. "Client's paying enough to expect perfection. You look like you've got news I won't like."

"Found three more snare sets along the eastern migration route. Professional grade, stationed exactly where our people cross during the change."

The workshop unanticipatedly feels smaller. "Same signature as the others?"

"Wire gauge with a trigger mechanism, and the placement—it's him. He's been charting our patterns, Nolan. Knows when we move, where we move."

Shrugging off my work apron, I hang it on its peg, my hands going through the motions while my mind races through possibilities. "Any of our people missing check-ins?"

"Everyone's accounted for, but migration season is right around the corner. We can't patrol every mile of forest."

"We can try."