Marybeth
The attack site looked ordinary. That was the problem. By now I knew what a border incursion looked like. Broken branches. Disturbed earth. Scattered tracks. Blood if someone had gotten unlucky. Most of the time, the evidence faded quickly.
Rain washed things away. Wind scattered scents. Animals contaminated tracks. The border had a way of swallowing secrets. Yet lately, the attacks had become too consistent. Too precise. Too organized.
Someone wasn't merely testing territory anymore. Someone was studying us. Learning. Adapting. That realization sat heavily in my chest as I crouched beside a cluster of damaged brush near the eastern border.
Several Calloway scouts worked nearby. Taking measurements. Marking tracks. Recording findings. My father stood further up the slope sp
