No one sees it. And no one knows the name of the drifter the linesman found the
next morning when he finally got out by Tarker Brook to repair the downed cables.
The drifter was coated with ice, head cocked back in a silent scream, ragged old
coat and shirt beneath chewed open. The drifter sat in a frozen pool of his own
blood, staring at the downed lines, his hands still held up in a warding-off
gesture with ice between the fingers.
And all around him are pawprints.
Wolfprints.

March