Possibly have a small existential crisis.
Not necessarily in that order.
Instead, you find yourself staring across Clover Meadows while mentally evaluating sightlines.
"...that would be a terrible place for a tent."
The orange cat- duck-creature beside you tilts its head.
You point toward the Golden Barn.
You point toward the Golden Coop.
"Besides, if somebody walked into my apartment and decided my living room looked like a good field station I'd be upset too."
The duck appears unconvinced.
Your ankle immediately attempts murder.
White-hot pain shoots up your leg.
You nearly sit back down.
The cat-duck makes a worried peeping noise.
You hiss through clenched teeth.
You begin limping toward where your abandoned equipment remains scattered near the shoreline.
Your head still feels vaguely disconnected from reality.
But your brain has latched onto a task.
And once your brain finds a task, the rest of you becomes an increasingly optional committee.
Your brain is already building spreadsheets.
You don't even have a notebook open.
The meadow slopes gently toward the pond.
Visibility remains excellent.
The open terrain allows observation of multiple species simultaneously.
Good sightlines toward both structures.
Enough distance to avoid disturbing resident animals.
Minimal concealment opportunities for predators.
Your shoulders relax slightly.
You hadn't realized how much of your nervous system remained trapped in the marsh.
Everything there had hidden something.
Every stretch of black water.
The this place doesn't feel safe energy.
You eventually locate your backpack.
The orange cat-duck peers over your shoulder.
You stare into the partially opened pack.
You slowly unzip the rest.
Past You had apparently packed this bag while being pursued by an apex predator.
The situation inside resembles a crime scene.
Tent fabric has been shoved into a compartment clearly not intended for tent fabric.
Compression straps appear to have been applied according to interpretive dance principles.
One guyline has somehow become entangled with three others.
The repair kit is upside down.
A sock is in a cooking pouch.
You don't remember putting a sock in a cooking pouch.
The sock looks equally confused.
You stare silently for several seconds.
The cat-duck looks inside.
"No, you're right. This is unacceptable."
You begin extracting equipment.
Then somehow a third that is attached to absolutely nothing.
The cat-duck offers no explanation.
The entire interior of the backpack attempts to come out as a single organism.
The tangled mass expands.
"I've invented backpack origami."
The thing moving through the reeds.
The overwhelming certainty that stopping meant dying.
Past You had been working under different priorities.
Tent organization had not ranked highly.
The statement feels ridiculous.
Then slightly less ridiculous.
Past You had gotten the equipment out.
You spend nearly forty minutes untangling everything anyway.
Because some crimes cannot go unanswered.
The inflatable expedition tent eventually emerges from captivity.
You recognize it immediately.
Same one you've carried across wetlands, shorelines, river deltas, migration surveys, and field seasons.
You know exactly how it goes together.
Your hands begin moving automatically.
The difference feels enormous.
Animal movement corridors.
You choose a patch of elevated ground overlooking both meadow and pond.
Far enough from the shoreline to avoid flooding.
Far enough from the barn and coop to avoid disturbance.
Close enough for observation.
You learned that method years ago.
Never camp directly on an active wildlife corridor.
Because your father taught you that.
Not in a dramatic lesson.
Not some meaningful memory.
Observation point established.
The words arrive before you can stop them.
Dad would've picked this spot too.
You immediately pretend you didn't think that.
You choose not to acknowledge it.
The notebook comes out next.
Scientific work always helps.
You sit carefully outside the tent.
Notebook balanced against one knee.
The cat-duck immediately sits on the other side.
Professional assistant distance.
Bell-bearing grazing herbivore.
Black-and-white horned grazer.
Normal social interactions.
Active nectar collection.
Then slowly look back down.
The list already has four species.
Because every new observation strengthens the same conclusion.
Behavioral specialization.
Ecological relationships.
Everything keeps fitting together.
That should make you feel better.
You stare across the meadow.
A group of bell-bearing grazers moves through clover.
A horned individual rests nearby.
Bee-ducks drift flower to flower.
Rooster-ducks patrol around the coop.
Nobody is acting unusual.
Nobody is acting impossible.
They're just living here.
Your father leaning over a field notebook.
Cross-referencing observations.
You spent years copying his system.
Separate columns for habitat.
Population notes in pencil.
Your notebook uses the exact same layout.
The realization makes something uncomfortable shift inside your chest.
Then continue writing harder.
Because that's obviously the correct response.
The cat-duck turns toward the sound.
The cat-duck continues staring.
You haven't eaten properly in...
A familiar voice surfaces.
The project will still exist after you eat.
The cat-duck appears pleased.
You reluctantly pull out trail mix.
The cat-duck inches closer.
Then break off a tiny piece.
The duck accepts it immediately.
The sun slowly lowers over Clover Meadows.
Golden light washes across the grass.
Across the impossible animals that continue existing with infuriating confidence.
The pain in your ankle fades into background noise.
The hunger becomes secondary.
The exhaustion drifts somewhere beyond the edge of awareness.
Hyperfocus settles over you like a blanket.
For the first time since arriving at Blackwater Pond, you have something resembling a plan.
Possibly not even a survivable plan.
But definitely a biologist plan.
And as the orange cat-duck settles beside your tent like a self-appointed research assistant, you realize with growing unease that you're approaching this mystery exactly the way your father would have.
The thought lingers long after sunset.
You do not write it down.
