Harry arrived at the cabins by dusk. He’d been able to maintain a steady pace trudging along the snowy path with the help of Isaac’s walking stick, and soon he could see the vaguely dark shapes of the cabins in the distance. Many years ago this had been a summer vacation spot for wealthy families who rented the cabins from an aging, irascible fox. Harry remembered the last time he was here with his parents, shortly after Isaac had recovered. They had swum in the lake and watched the stars circle the heavens at night while Mama read to them and Dad pointed out the constellations.

But the fox, a widower, had died without heirs, and no one had bought the property or maintained the cabins, which had fallen into serious disrepair. Now, rumor had it, they were notorious for their use as a refuge by vagrants and lowlifes. That didn’t bother Harry.

There were nine cabins, settled in a clearing and arranged in a very large, roughly shaped triangle, about thirty steps apart, not far from the frozen Elk Lake, with one point of the triangle close to the woods. Only four cabins faced the water, set back about a hundred steps — Harry and Isaac had counted — from the water’s edge, and these were the most coveted.

Harry approached from what had been the main road and looked around. The cabins were built of logs, with slanted roofs and small chimneys, all now blanketed in snow. Each had had a porch with a swing or chairs made of rough twigs that poked you when you sat on them without the cushions, he recalled now, and each cabin door was painted a different color. Harry’s family had stayed in Green, the farthest cabin facing the lake.

The light was fading, and he was tired. His pouch had become heavier with each step, and with dusk had come a damp and freezing chill that promised more snow. Harry found the last cabin just as darkness fell.

He used the walking stick to clear away the path before him and stepped cautiously up to the porch. There was no way to know if the steps had rotted, or if they were there at all. With a gloved paw, he brushed away the snow that clung to the door.

“Anyone here?” he called. There was no answer. He pushed the door slowly. It gave with a slight creak. “Anyone here?” he repeated. When there was no response, he pushed harder on the door, which creaked some more as he walked inside.

He dropped his pouch and reached for the matches he knew were in a small pocket near the top. He struck one and looked around.

The cabin was much smaller than he remembered, and it was damp and cold. The main room was square, with a small alcove for a bare minimum of kitchen equipment, and there was a bathroom in a small building outside in the back. There had been bunk beds, and a separate, smaller room off to the side, where his parents had slept. As a child, Harry had loved the idea of sleeping in the kitchen, although there had been the predictable fight about the bunk bed and who would get the top. In the end it had been Harry, but only because Mama would not allow Isaac to try to climb the ladder with his weakened leg.

“Isaac needs to save his strength,” she had said, tucking him in, and the triumph that Harry had felt at having secured the top bunk instantly soured. He had climbed nimbly up to the top, but felt no pleasure even at his ability to lie on his back and barely touch the ceiling with all four paws. Besides, on warm summer nights it was hot, and the first few times when he awoke in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, he bumped his head. Isaac slept soundly below. Harry shoved him hard as he climbed back up, but Isaac didn’t stir. It wasn’t fair.

Six large, fat candles, burnt low, sat on the counter, and he lit them with his match. The room brightened. Now Harry saw in the flickering light that the bunk bed still stood against the wall near the kitchen alcove. A worn plaid blanket lay crumpled on the lower bed, and an ancient rocker, its woven seat shredded, stood silently in a corner. Harry didn’t remember a rocker. He walked into the adjoining bedroom, which was empty. The floor was gritty with dirt and bark, tracked in from the forest, and the shriveled droppings of small animals. Back in the kitchen area, a dented black pot encrusted with many ancient meals sat near the hearth, alongside a rusty kettle.

Clearly the cabin had been used frequently, although not in a while; the ashes, stirred slightly by the rush of air that swept down the chimney, were cold. He pushed the blanket aside and sat down on the bed, feeling the mattress sag beneath him, then opened his sack and dug out the remains of the meal Gerard had offered — two more sandwiches and some dried fruit. When Harry finished eating, he stepped outside to scoop some snow into the black pot. He held it over the candle and when the snow melted, he drank deeply. Cold and rusty.

How long would it be before Gerard and Elton arrived? Reluctantly Harry walked back outside into the freezing night and wiped away the snow from the window that faced the road. Inside, he placed one of the lit candles on the window ledge, where the flame flickered slightly in the draft.

He moved his pouch to lean against the door after he bolted it from the inside, folded the walking stick, and tucked it into his coat pocket. He went out the back door to use the deteriorating outhouse and found a large pile of dry wood stashed under the cabin. In a few minutes, he’d lit a fire and the room began to warm. Pulling the rocking chair over to the hearth, he folded the blanket on the seat and watched the fire spit and crackle. He took off his boots and stretched out his feet. Shadows leaped across the rough, brown walls and ceiling. Time to make a plan.

Harry went to his pouch, pulled out his map, and brought it over to the candles, holding it close to his face in the dim light. It was impossible to know how long it would take to reach the fortress. Since there was no road, he’d have to make his way through the dense underbrush of the forest in what would surely be another series of storms and find whatever food and shelter he could. Still, he had almost two weeks to get there and back. It shouldn’t take that long. He folded the map and put it back into the pouch, planning to leave the cabins in the morning.

But what to do about Gerard? And what of Elton? Could he be a part of Isaac’s devious plan? Harry had to know. He’d simply ask Gerard, perhaps circuitously at first. Then, depending on the weasel’s response, he’d question him more closely.

“My brother, Isaac, thinks highly of you,” Harry would say. It would be a statement, not a question that Gerard could avoid answering. Gerard would look surprised, then try to disguise his reaction by elaborately lighting a cigarette.

“Indeed.”

“Your work for him has been so consistently excellent,” Harry would continue. “You must be gratified to know he trusts you with such delicate matters.”

“So you know all about it,” Gerard would respond. “Funny that Isaac never mentioned he’d told you. Don’t you agree?”

Harry could go no further. He had not the slightest idea what Gerard’s relationship was to Isaac, or what Elton’s relationship was to Gerard, and the more he tried to imagine the conversation, the more it went in circles, with Harry probing, Gerard evading, and Elton replying in infuriating monosyllables.

Much later there was a knock at the door.

Harry, who had been dozing in front of the fire, leaped up from the rocker. Good, he thought. I’m ready. They will be exhausted and cold; I have eaten, rested, and am refreshed. There will be a certain amount of verbal sparring, but now that I know Gerard is definitely working for Isaac, and Gerard doesn’t know that I know, I have the advantage. Elton will probably lose interest and go to sleep; I can question him later. By the end of this evening I will know where I stand.

But Elton stood at the door, alone. “Where is Gerard?” Harry asked as he let the badger in. Elton was carrying a small lantern lit by a candle that flickered behind its protective glass. He looked tired; his spectacles were nearly covered with frozen snow.

“Turned back. Hurt knee. Try tomorrow.” He slipped the backpack off his shoulders and dropped it and the sample case against the far wall.

“Tomorrow? Where will we meet him?”

Elton shook his head. “Didn’t say.” He looked at Harry, searching his face through his spectacles, which had now fogged over and were covered with moisture. “Problem?”

Harry was furious but tried not to show it. “No. Not a problem.” Only an opportunity lost, perhaps not to come again. Then he understood. This must be part of a larger plan, something that had been in the works for a while. Gerard wasn’t spying on Harry. There was something else, there had to be. He’d never intended to come to the cabins. He needed to carry out the errand he’d agreed to do for Isaac. Harry had played right into his paws.

Now Harry would be spending time with Elton, trying to make conversation, if you could call it that. He’d have to find out if Elton was a part of this scheme. And the confrontation with Gerard he’d been anticipating would have to wait.

Elton inspected the cabin and noted the facilities in the back. When he returned, he reached into his large satchel, removed a small whisk broom, and attached a short wooden handle. In a few minutes, he had swept the floor of both rooms clean. Then he opened the door and briskly brushed the pile of dirt and crumbled dead leaves onto the porch before dismantling the broom and returning it to the satchel. Pulling a sandwich out of his pack, he sat down in front of the fire, then went outside and returned to melt some snow in the pot, as Harry had done. He knelt again in front of the fire and held out his paws, rubbing them.

“Good fire.”

Harry had watched Elton distractedly, his mind racing. He had to know what Gerard was up to. But there was a good chance he’d never see the weasel again. He would never know what that note was all about.

Into the long silence, Elton said, “What now?”

“What? What do you mean?” Harry had almost forgotten the badger was sitting beside him.

Elton reached into his pack and pulled out a small leather pouch. He gestured to Harry and they sat down on the floor. Elton carefully emptied the pouch in front of them.

“Don’t tell me you believe in this stuff!” Harry said. On the floor in a neat pile were about two dozen small shells and several smooth stones of different dark colors. There was one small translucent quartz crystal and a larger one, blood red.

Elton looked up. “Why not?”

Harry was disgusted. Fortune-telling was a fraud.

Elton pointed to the stones. “Pick.”

“No, not me.”

“Pick.”

Harry stood up. “No. I don’t want to. I don’t believe in it.”

“Pick.”

The fire was dying and the room had cooled. Harry walked out the back door and returned with more firewood. He built up the fire again and when it was spitting and snapping, turned back to Elton, who sat, unmoving, on the floor, looking at the stones and shells. Elton looked up. “Pick.”

The stubbornness of the badgers.

“All right,” Harry said with a sigh of impatience. He picked up a smooth, dark stone, almost a perfect oval, recalling for a moment his long-lost collection. “This one.”

Elton nodded. “Ask question.” He removed his spectacles and wiped them on his pants, then carefully replaced them. “Shake.” He lay back on the floor, his head on his bulky pack, and closed his eyes. “Throw. No hurry.”

Harry stuffed the stones and the shells back into the leather pouch. It was very soft and thin, and he could feel the edges of the shells inside as he squeezed the pouch in his paw.

Think of a question. Fine.

What is the connection between Isaac and Gerard?

He untied the pouch and shook it violently, dropping the stones and shells onto the floor with a clatter.

The shells scattered across the floor and the oval, black stone rolled into the darkness and hit the wall. The blood red crystal, smaller and more jagged, continued to tumble until it stopped, touching the black.

Elton sat up and peered over his spectacles.

“This is nonsense,” Harry said. “I don’t believe in moochy-poochy stuff.”

“Not moochy-poochy.” The badger looked up, offended.

“Well, then, what’s the answer to my question?”

Elton was silent for a moment. “Not good.”

“Just tell me, for the gods’ sake.”

Elton pointed to the two stones against the wall. “Danger. Close to you. Path you follow. Dead end.” He started to gather up the scattered stones and shells.

“What danger? What dead end? Is that all?”

Elton nodded, his face expressionless.

This is nonsense, Harry thought. “The only thing close to me is you, Elton,” he said, scooping up the distant stones and handing them over.

“Not me.”

Harry looked at Elton’s calm, bespectacled face. I believe him, he thought. “And besides, it didn’t answer my question.”

“Sure?” He took the stones and shells from Harry. “My turn.”

“Which piece is yours?”

Elton held up the translucent quartz. He put everything back into the pouch and held it in his paws for a moment, his eyes closed. Then he smoothed a spot on the floor, shook the pouch, untied the leather cord, and poured out the contents in front of him.

This time the shells formed an irregular circle on the floor; a few appeared to radiate from the center. Harry’s black stone had stopped next to the translucent quartz near the center of the circle; the red had rolled far off into the darkness along with some other shells.

“What did you ask?” What urgent question could Elton need to have answered? Harry thought. Will I sleep soundly tonight? Will my customers place big orders? Will I ever speak in complete sentences?

“Weather,” Elton said. He looked at the floor for a moment, then pointed to the circle. “Sun tomorrow.” He collected the shells and stones, put the pouch back into his sack, and turned to Harry. “Need sleep. You?” He gestured to the top bunk.

Harry had no idea if there was even a mattress there. He climbed up and saw that it was in the same condition as the one below. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll take the top.”

In a few minutes they had doused the candles. The cabin was very dark, the fire slowly dying once more. Elton had placed his pack beneath the bed after withdrawing from it a pair of soft, faded red slippers and a matching nightcap, both of which he donned with obvious relief and pleasure. He wrapped his coat around him, carefully placed his spectacles on the floor next to his bed within easy reach in the dark, and fell asleep almost immediately. His snores, quiet and rhythmical, had an odd buzzing quality, as if he were a bee or a fly.

Harry climbed to the top bunk, taking the brown blanket with him and keeping his coat on. He had put his boots back on because of the cold. Did he even own a pair of slippers? He decided to buy some as soon as he returned home — lined with rabbit fur, in different colors, one for each day of the week. With the money he’d have, he could buy a dozen pairs if he wanted to.

He thought about the stones and Elton’s words. Where could the danger come from? Isaac? Of course, Isaac — Harry had always suspected his brother was capable of anything. But Isaac was miles away. Gerard? More likely.

Harry stared up at the ceiling, close to his head, his eyes now accustomed to the dark. The mattress was small and too soft. He noted he could now touch the ceiling, which was laced with spiderwebs, with his elbows and his knees.

* * *

The sound of dripping water awakened him the next morning. Harry opened his eyes and saw the cabin filled with sunlight, the snow melting from the windows, and Elton standing in the open doorway.

Sun?

He leaped down from the bunk bed and joined Elton at the door. The air was warm, and the sound of dripping, running water was everywhere. The snow melted from the trees, which now glistened as if their branches were covered with glass, and the icicles that had formed from the roof of the cabin dripped regularly onto the deep snow beneath, leaving small, deep pockmarks. The shadow of the cabin in the morning light was purple-blue. It was a long time since Harry had even seen a shadow outdoors.

Down the road in the distance he could see the other cabins clearly; the field in the center of the large, rough triangle of the encampment was still deep in snow; behind them, the jagged profile of the pines and firs, dark greenish black against the bright blue sky, was clear and sharply outlined.

“Stones right,” Elton growled. “Nice day.”

Harry took a deep breath of the warm air. “You can say that again.”

Elton looked puzzled. “Stones right. Nice day.”

Harry laughed, ignoring the comment about the stones. Pointing out the likelihood of coincidence was not going to get him anywhere. “Yes, it is.”

Elton closed the door with apparent reluctance. “Hungry,” he said. He’d already dressed in his walking boots and several heavy sweaters; the slippers and nightcap were nowhere to be seen.

“So am I. Anything left?” he asked, pointing to Elton’s pack beneath the bed.

“No.”

“We’ll have to hunt, then.”

Elton nodded.

In a few minutes, they were outdoors again, Elton carrying a small tool that looked like a hammer with a head made of stone, Harry with just an empty sack he’d found beneath the bed. Elton had had an extra cap with a visor, which made walking through the blinding snow-covered field much easier, and Harry had accepted it with a grunt of thanks.

They agreed to separate and meet back at the cabin by noon. Harry looked up at the bright blue sky. He had about an hour to find food and return. Elton started in the direction of the other cabins along the lake, working his way back to the main road. Harry decided to try the near arm of the triangle, heading away from the lake and toward the woods behind the clearing.

That last summer with his family he had explored these cabins and the woods on his own many times. Inevitably Isaac would be lounging pathetically on the porch swing, as he did almost every day, lovingly attended to by Mama.

Now, as he walked slowly through the snow, Harry thought, I could have accepted my role as the older, stronger sibling, protectively caring for my fragile, sick brother — if Isaac had been a different kind of fox. Mama and I could have taken care of him together. Dad would have come to me for advice on how to handle Isaac’s mental state; they would have turned to me for guidance.

… “Harry,” his mother said. “I’m concerned about your brother. He doesn’t seem to be eating. Do you know what could be bothering him?”

“Perhaps he’s just tired, Mama. Let me try to feed him. I’ll tell him a story to distract him.”

“My darling child!” Mama replied. “How could we manage without you?” She turned to Dad. “Don’t we have an unusually kind and caring son?”

“I’m so proud of you,” Dad said. “But you need to go out and play. We can take care of Isaac.”

“No, no,” Harry said. “Let me do it. I don’t care about playing with friends. My brother’s health is much more important.”

Dad and Mama hugged him, and Mama kissed him tenderly.

“No one could ask for a finer son,” Mama said….

Harry approached a cabin, deserted and blanketed in snow, with icicles dripping from the roof. He walked around the back, peering beneath the foundation where wood was normally stored. Holding on to the sack, he got down on all fours and crept slowly toward the base of the building.

Sure enough, he picked up the scent of mouse. It was very strong, which suggested a colony, perhaps several, living together under the cabin for warmth and shelter, foraging for smaller bugs and whatever dead vegetation could be found. They wouldn’t be fat but they’d be alive, and if there were enough of them, they would be filling.

Harry was slender enough to crawl under the cabin, which he did slowly and silently. Some snow had drifted around the perimeter but it was otherwise dry. When his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he saw what he was looking for: dozens of bony adults and a number of their young, equally thin, all asleep. He pounced on the adults, breaking their necks with his paws; the babies squealed and ran; some in their panic ran toward him, which made it easy to kill them. Harry simply swept the dead and dying into the sack. When he crawled out from under the cabin it was bulging and lumpy with the dead mice; blood began to soak through the thin burlap, and the slightly bitter scent of fresh-killed mouse made his stomach growl in anticipation.

Should he eat one now? Why not? He was very hungry; the scent was very strong, and it was impossible to imagine when he might eat again. Sharing with Elton would mean less food for Harry. Elton could take care of himself.

Harry reached into the sack and pulled out one mouse after another. The first mouthful, still quite warm, was incredibly good. Had he forgotten how much he’d always enjoyed mouse? They were so delicious that by the time he reached the bottom of the sack he was gulping them down whole. That’s the thing about mice, he thought. You can’t eat just one.

Suddenly, he choked. Harry coughed and gagged until the tears ran down his face, trying to swallow a bone that had lodged horizontally in his windpipe. He doubled over, reached for some snow, and filled his mouth. The melting snow cooled his throat and gave him something to swallow, and in a few moments he could breathe again. He wiped his face and mouth with snow and finished the last few mice, this time chewing slowly. He sighed with satisfaction.

Harry buried the bloodstained sack in a snowdrift and trotted back to the green cabin. He’d explain to Elton that he’d been unable to capture the mice, which had escaped from under the cabin into a dozen small and inaccessible holes in the flooring, leaving him with nothing. He’d pretend to be hungry and frustrated. Maybe Elton will have something to share — in which case, Harry thought, I will eat again.

On his way back to the cabin, Harry felt the air become cool, then cold. He looked up. Large gray clouds floated in front of the sun, which was now a shiny white disk in the overcast sky. In a few minutes it disappeared completely; the quickly moving clouds, blowing in from across the lake, were darker gray, and the horizon vanished. It smelled like snow.

Elton was already inside, having made a fire. He’d thrown some brown and surprisingly fragrant leaves into the iron pot, which he had scrubbed clean, along with some melted snow, and was in the process of chopping several dark and intimidating root vegetables — Harry hoped they were vegetables — with his hatchet. Elton gestured to the limp gray bodies on the countertop.

“Vole,” he said. “You?”

“Good work,” Harry said. “I found some the other day on my way to the Inn. Tasty.” He tried to look discouraged. “Unfortunately, I was not as successful just now. ” He explained about the mice.

Elton looked him up and down from behind his spectacles. “Too bad. Sack?” he asked.

Harry thought quickly. “Oh. Must have dropped it on the way back. I’ll look for it later.”

Elton skinned and gutted the voles deftly and dropped them into the pot along with the vegetables, then placed it on the fire in the hearth, where it teetered unsteadily.

The badger wiped his paws on his shirt and walked over to his pack. He reached in and withdrew a small, flat piece of wood hinged in the middle like a book, opened it, and placed it on the floor.

What now?

It was a checkerboard, the squares faded to gray and rose.

“You like games, don’t you?” Harry said.

“Pass time. You play?” Elton asked. He opened a small wooden box and carefully placed a number of oddly shaped objects on the floor.

“I think so,” said Harry, reluctantly. “But what are those?”

“Badger checkers. Easy.”

Elton explained the game. “Rules change,” he said. “Three moves. Change back.”

“But changing rules means no rules,” Harry said, beginning to be interested. “Why not just call it what it is — cheating?”

Elton shook his head. “Not cheating. Players choose.”

“You mean they decide whether to change the rules or not?”

“Yes. Sometimes.”

The badger finished talking and then walked over to the pot. He lifted the lid and sniffed the bubbling contents. “Not bad,” he said.

He returned to the checkerboard and set up the pieces. Harry was intrigued. A game with rules that kept changing? Sometimes? How would you win a game like that?

They played in silence and Harry watched Elton closely, looking for clues. At one point, when Elton jumped several of Harry’s pieces, including an especially interesting feathered pine cone, Harry said, “Wait! When I did that you said, ‘Not allowed.’ What’s going on?”

Elton growled, “Badger rules. Like mice. Hard to swallow.” He glanced at Harry and walked away to check the pot in the hearth again. “Saw you,” he said, without turning around.

Damn! “Look, Elton,” he began, “I did find a few mice, but only a few. It didn’t seem worth it to bring them back.”

“Understood.”

Harry stomped to the door and stood on the porch, watching the sky darken and breathing in the smell of imminent snow. He reached down, packed a snowball with his paws, and threw it in the direction of the frozen lake. My life was so much simpler when I was alone. He threw another snowball. Well, it can be that way again. He went inside.

Elton had taken the pot from the hearth and placed it on the floor near the checkerboard. The contents bubbled. He offered Harry a large ladle-like spoon from his pack and took another one for himself. “Share,” Elton said.

“Are you sure? As you so tactfully pointed out, I have already eaten.”

“Not tactful,” Elton said. “Honest.” His eyes behind his spectacles became icy. “Share,” he said again, more firmly. “Badgers share.”

Harry gave in. There was no point arguing with a badger. Besides, it wasn’t as if there had been a huge quantity of mice. “If you insist.”

In a few minutes, Elton scraped the bottom of the pot, then turned it upside down and drank from it, after first offering it to Harry, who declined. A neat pile of vole bones lay on the floor beside Elton; Harry’s were scattered. Elton put the all the bones in the pot and brought it to the hearth.

Harry felt the need to change the subject. “So, Elton,” he said, “do you have a family?”

Elton turned. “Family?”

“Yes. A mate? Brothers and sisters? Children?”

Elton walked back to where Harry was sitting, cross-legged, on the floor. “Brother only.”

“What’s he like?”

“Like?” Elton looked puzzled. “Badger. Like me.”

“No, I mean, what kind of creature is he?”

Elton sat down opposite Harry. “Older. Smarter. Bigger. Faster.” Elton seemed to be thinking. “Big talker.”

“For a badger, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“Do you get along?”

“Get along?”

“Do you like him? Do you get along? Do you trust him?”

Elton didn’t answer right away. “At first, no. Jealous.”

“Jealous? Why?”

“Older. Smarter. Bigger. Faster.”

“What happened?”

Elton stretched out his short legs in their worn, brown boots.

“Hard to say. You?”

“Yes,” Harry replied. “Unfortunately, I do have a brother.”

“Get along?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Younger. Phonier. Richer. Meaner. “Hard to say.”

The two sat silently for a moment. “I don’t know what your plans are,” Harry said, changing the subject again, “but I’d like to move on to the fortifications today. I could get a few hours in before dark.”

Elton turned to him. “Go tomorrow,” he said. “Snow soon.”

“Snow every day.”

“Go tomorrow.”

“I don’t agree. I’ll leave now and hope to make some progress by tomorrow morning.” He got up to put his things together.

“Play again,” Elton said, gesturing to the checkerboard. “You win, leave now. I win, go together. Tomorrow.”

Will I never be rid of him? Harry thought. “All right. But if I win, I leave by myself, now. If you win, we’ll see.”

“See?”

“Yes.”

“I win. Go together,” Elton said, giving Harry that stubborn stare.

“Fine, fine.” Let’s get this over with, Harry thought. I can still catch a few hours of daylight.

Elton reset the board.

It was early evening before Harry won his first game of badger checkers. He had watched through six games, losing each one, as Elton attacked (“Ho!”), set traps (“Ho!”), took his playing pieces (“Ho!”), returned his playing pieces (“Ho!”), and defeated him by a wide margin (“Ho!”).

Harry hated to lose. Today, perhaps because of the mice, he especially hated to lose to Elton. “Another game,” he’d said after his first one, giving up on his plans. Elton had defeated him in more ways than one.

In the beginning, Harry drummed impatiently on the floor as Elton spent a lot of time preparing for each move. Finally, by the end of the seventh game, Harry understood. The winning strategy was to play conventionally for a while, and then, when your opponent least expected it, change the rules. Of course, when both players did that the game became almost impossible to follow. Bluffing, making distracting noises and gestures, and keeping a straight face while making errors (change of rules? or a deliberate effort to throw your opponent off track?) were techniques Elton had clearly mastered.

In one game, Harry noticed that Elton yawned loudly and scratched his head just before he made an unexpected rules change. A few times, Elton ignored an obvious opportunity and allowed Harry to advance into dangerous territory. No sooner was Harry feeling elated and confident about his success than Elton’s next move decimated his defense. Toward the end of the seventh game, there were only a few pieces left on the board and Harry was cornered. It was Elton’s move; Harry began to cough — a dry, hacking cough that seemed to come from deep in his chest. He doubled over and his eyes teared.

“Problem?” Elton asked, looking up with concern.

“I’m fine,” Harry managed to choke out. “Sorry.”

Elton made his move.

With a triumphant shout, Harry jumped his feathered pine cone over Elton’s bundle of twigs.

“Ho! Double ho! I won!” After six straight humiliating defeats, it felt very, very good. He clapped his paws, stood up, and stretched.

Elton held out a paw and they shook. “Learn fast.”

“Yes,” Harry said with a satisfied smile. “I do.”

He walked to the window. It was dark, and the faint light from the cabin window illuminated the ground. Harry could see the snow, falling in thick, fat flakes, straight down. There was no wind. The tracks he’d made returning from the cabin had filled up with snow; the path he and Elton had made to the door had already disappeared. He turned back to the fire.

Elton sat on the lower bunk mattress, his nightcap already on his head. “Harry,” he said as he fell back on the mattress. “Good coughing.” In a few minutes, he was asleep on the bottom bunk, buzzing.

Harry picked up the checker pieces and moved them slowly around the board. Badger checkers. He thought about inventing Harry the Fox checkers. There would be rules, but they would never change: go my own way, depend on no one, eat when I can, get revenge on my brother. A good game — a game I can win.

He yawned. Sleep tempted him: The cabin was still warm; the hot food was comforting in his stomach; the brief moment of cold he’d felt looking out at the snow had made him shiver. The falling snow began to blow against the windows, and Harry could sense the temperature dropping.

He put the checker pieces and the board near Elton’s pack, climbed up to the top bunk, and pulled his coat and the blanket around him. The fire slowly died; the cabin grew dark.

He thought about the “message” from the moochy-poochy stones. Dead end. What could that mean? That it was futile to try to discover the connection between Gerard and Isaac? What path was he following that could lead to nowhere? I knew there was a reason I hated those things, he thought. They make no sense, and it’s a waste of time to try to figure them out. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.