Shallow pools of mud filled the bottoms of the prints he’d left behind. Many prints. He’d been hunting all night. He walked under a dead pine and saw the moon in the empty space above. Not full, but close enough. He resisted the urge to call to it. His stomach growled. Saliva dripped from his jagged fangs, and he licked his muzzle with his long, black tongue. Less than a mile to the north, a man-snack moved from inside a den to outside. The Case-thing stopped and sniffed. His nostrils flared, and he lifted his snout higher. The saliva in his mouth stopped dripping and started pouring. He licked his muzzle again and ran. He stopped in the bushes just shy of the man-snack, poked his head between two bunches of leaves, and flared his nostrils. His stomach growled again, but he doubted the man-snack could hear. Men-snacks usually only responded to the growls that came from the Case-thing’s throat.
