Dingos Surrounded the Baby, but Something Older Watched From the Ridge

The Tracks on the Roof

Tom didn’t believe her about the window. Until it rained. The next morning, he went up to check the solar panels and froze. Along the edge of the corrugated metal were five clear impressions in the dust—long toes, slightly spread, positioned in a way no wild dog would balance. Not leaping. Perched. Watching.

He photographed them, brought the images inside, and overlaid them against a reference of known animal prints. None matched. Clara leaned over his shoulder and said quietly, “It wasn’t the dingos.” Tom nodded, his face drawn. “We need to know what lives out here that doesn’t leave.”

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