There is a lump of something brown way out in a neighbor's field. It could be a downed deer, or it could be a crouching man with a taste for fawn meat, the sort of predator who shot Smiling Buck a year ago. Feinberg whips out a pair of binoculars. If it is an illegal hunter, she'll call the state Department of Natural Resources, but she'll also confront him herself, scream, guard a deer's body with her own if she has to.

The hunched shape turns out to be a pile of leaves.