But something in his bones told him it wasn’t that simple. Something else was going on. The vibrations were off. The air felt wrong. He stopped several times, looking back over his shoulder, willing himself to turn around and head home.

But the moose tracks drew him on. He followed them across the contours of the land.

Soon he heard a snort. He slowed his pace, moving forward cautiously. The trees parted, and quite suddenly he came upon the scene.

He froze.

Standing directly in front of him, on a rough edge of land that fell off to a gully behind it, stood a white moose.

He’d heard about them but never seen one before, though a buddy of his from up near Millinocket had seen one once, a decade or two ago, or so he said. They were more common in Canada, in places like New Brunswick, off to the east of Maine, and Ontario, to the northwest, and all the way up to Alaska. But sometimes one or two were seen around New England. He’d heard they weren’t albinos but true white moose, whose coats turned darker in the summer but lighter during the winter months. It was some sort of genetic thing, someone had told him. This one had a few darker spots and smudges on its coat, which was long, thick, and a little shab-by for the winter season. The animal stood about six and a half feet tall at the shoulders, he figured, and had shed its antlers, giving it a bald, almost comical look. It had ridiculously long, thin legs, which held up its thick, muscular body. The elongated head ended in a drooping snout. The hump at the top of the shoulders was particularly pronounced in this one, shown off by the wet spiked fur sticking up from the top of it.

The moose watched him with large brown eyes for a few moments, turning its head from side to side, as if agitated.