The Trail

The morning light came thin and gray through the frost-crusted window. Joel shrugged into his coat, already moving toward the door. “C’mon. Got somethin’ to show you.” Ellie pulled on her boots, still sleepy, but curious. She followed him out into the cold. The snow had stopped overnight, leaving a white blanket that swallowed every sound. The world felt hushed, waiting. Joel stopped at a patch of open ground near the treeline. He pointed down. “What do you see?” Ellie squinted. “Snow?” “Look closer.” She crouched, brushing at the surface. Then she saw them—small indentations, a series of paired dots trailing into the woods. “Tracks?” “Rabbit. See how the hind feet land ahead of the front ones? That’s a bounder. Means it wasn’t spooked, just hopin’ along.” He walked a few steps, then stopped again, kneeling. This set was different—wider, irregular, with claw marks at the end of each imprint. “Coyote. Followin’ the rabbit.” He traced the line with his finger. “See how the coyote’s tracks are staggered? Walkin’, not runnin’. He’s patient. Knows the rabbit’ll tire.” Ellie studied the prints, then looked at Joel. “So we could follow them? Find the kill?” “Maybe. Or we could set a snare on that rabbit trail. Coyote’s already doin’ the work of pushin’ it toward a thicket.” He pulled a length of wire from his pocket. “Lesson number twenty-three: read the land, and let the land do half the huntin’.” They found a gap between two saplings where the rabbit tracks funnelled through. Joel showed her how to set the snare low, the loop just big enough for a rabbit’s head, the anchor tied to a sturdy root. “Too high, she’ll duck under. Too tight, she’ll spook. You gotta think like her.” Ellie worked the wire carefully, her breath fogging in the cold. “How do you know all this? Were you, like, a survivalist or somethin’ before?” Joel was quiet for a moment. “Before the outbreak, I did some guidin’—huntin’ trips, fishin’ charters. Taught folks how to track. My brother Tommy and me, we’d spend weekends out in the woods.” He paused. “That was a long time ago.” Ellie stood, brushing snow off her knees. “Do you ever think about him? Tommy, I mean.” “Every day.” Joel’s voice was low. “But thinkin’ ain’t the same as knowin’. I just hope he’s still out there.” They walked in silence for a while, looping back toward the frozen lake. The tracks they’d seen earlier converged near a fallen log. Joel held up a hand, signaling her to stop. A dark shape lay in the snow—the rabbit, still, the coyote’s prints leading away into deeper woods. “Coyote made his kill. Left it. He’ll come back for it tonight,” Joel said. “But we can take it now. Fair game.” Ellie looked at the dead rabbit, then at Joel. “Is that… okay? Stealin’ from a coyote?” “Coyote’ll find somethin’ else. But if we don’t take it, it’ll freeze and rot. Waste.” He knelt, pulling out a knife. “Lesson number twenty-four: never let good meat go to waste.” As he dressed the rabbit, Ellie sat on the log, watching. The sun had climbed higher, casting long blue shadows across the snow. She pulled her hood tighter. “Joel?” “Mm?” “You ever feel like somethin’s trackin’ you? Like all the time?” He stopped, looked at her. The knife blade gleamed. “You mean the infected? Or people?” “Everything. Like the whole world’s a predator and you’re just the rabbit.” Joel wiped his hands on his pants, then stood. He walked over and sat beside her on the log, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Every damn day. But that’s why you learn to read the tracks. You see danger comin’, you get a chance to move, to set your own snare.” He looked at her. “You ain’t the rabbit, Ellie. You’re the coyote. You just gotta learn to see your own footprints.” She was quiet for a long moment. Then she nodded, a small, firm nod. “Okay. Show me more.” He smiled—a rare, tired smile. “Alright. Let’s get this rabbit home. I’ll teach you how to skin it proper.” They walked back through the snow, side by side, their tracks merging into one path.