The wire sang.
Dana Whitlock froze mid-step, her boot hovering over the crusted snow. The sound came again—a high, trembling note that cut through the December silence like a blade drawn across glass.
Something had hit the perimeter alarm.
She dropped to a crouch, rifle already in her hands. The tree line stretched before her, a wall of bare oak and maple that offered a thousand hiding places.
Her breath formed small clouds in the frigid air as she waited, listening.
Nothing moved. The forest held its breath.
Dana counted to thirty, then stood. Probably a deer. Or a branch heavy with ice, finally snapping under its own weight.
The wire had been singing false alarms all winter.
She turned toward the farmhouse, its sagging silhouette visible through the skeletal trees. Three more steps and she stopped again.
Red droplets dotted the snow at her feet.
Blood. Fresh enough to steam in the cold air, dark enough to mean something vital had been opened.
Dana followed the trail with her eyes, tracing it back toward the wire mesh that ringed her property. The drops grew larger, more frequent.
*Walk away.*
The thought came unbidden, sharp as the wind that scraped against her cheeks. Whatever was bleeding out there wasn't her problem.
She'd learned that lesson the hard way—twice. The first time had cost her a night's sleep and half her medical supplies. The second time had nearly cost her life.
She shifted her weight, boot crunching on ice. The farmhouse waited, its windows dark, its door barred.
Inside, the wood stove held the last of her split oak. Inside, her coffee was growing cold.
The blood trail led deeper into the wire maze.