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"Thank you."
"There were broken bones. Maybe a half-dozen hospital reports. I can't recall details, but it was a clearly documented case of physical abuse."
There are a few moments of silence after that, and it is awkward now. Finally, he rises and takes his empty mug into the kitchen. I follow a moment later to see him, not preparing to leave, but pouring another half cup. He takes it to the window and looks out.
I've had enough coffee, but I join him in gazing into the night, and the silence softens until he says, "You've got a fox."
I look toward the carving Brent gave me, where it sits on my table.
"No," he says. "A real one."
He motions me to the window and reaches back to extinguish the lantern. Moonlight streams in. He points, and it takes me a minute, but slowly I make out the shape of a canine the size of a spaniel, half emerged from a fallen log. Then it steps out.
"That'd be the den," he says. "It's a red fox."
I squint against the glass. "Doesn't look very red to me."
"It's a cross fox. Which is a variant of a red. The colouring is dark red and you'll still see the white-tipped tail, but it has a black line down its back and one over its shoulders."
"Hence the name."
He nods. "They're rarer than the traditional colouring, but not as rare as the silver variant. We've got one of those in the area."
"If you spot it on a ride, can you point it out?"
"Course."
"Thanks. I'd like to see that. Or any wildlife, really. Are there books? When I popped in the library, it seemed mostly fiction."
"I have books."
"Any chance of borrowing one?"
He nods. It's a laconic nod, but the glitter in his eyes says he's pleased.
"Do I need to worry about the fox being there?" I ask, mostly to keep the conversation going.
"Nah. Only a rabid one is a threat. I'll tell you how to spot rabid animals, but they're extremely rare, and we have the antidote. As for the fox, just keep your garbage covered. That's a general rule, though. Raccoons and bears are the real troublemakers there. Occasionally, foxes will be bolder than other animals. It might let you get closer than you expect. Or it might sit and watch you, but that's only a problem if it approaches you or tries to attack."
"Because that suggests rabies."
"Yep. And don't feed it. It's a wild animal. Let it stay wild. You'll only do more harm than good otherwise, as much as you might think you're helping."
He's staring into the forest again, his expression tight. After a moment, he shakes it off and clears his throat. "Anyway, the fox shouldn't be a problem, so you can leave it be. The only thing I'll warn you about is that if it's a vixen--a female--and you're here in mating season, her call will probably scare the crap out of you. Every year I get some panicked new resident pounding on my door in the middle of the night, shouting about the woman being murdered in the forest."
"I'll consider myself warned."
He steps back from the window. Then he stops and peers up.
"Are those your blankets on the balcony?" he says. "Don't tell me you're still sleeping outside."
"Okay, I won't tell you."
He gives me a look.
I shrug. "It's a little weird, I know. Maybe it's the fresh air or the quiet, but I slept so well that first night that I kept doing it."
"Just don't ask me to drag your bed out there."
