After leaving Scout’s mole-hole home, the three set out for  Abigail’s apartment, only a short distance away. Each, lost in thought, quietly pondered the next steps.

Wiley’s mind turned to how he might convince the beavers, as Scout had pointed out earlier, to redirect the flow of the waters, reinforce their crossings, and finally, to dam up the works. He mumbled to himself as they walked.

Meanwhile, Scout wondered if Abigail had discovered anything else in the drawers of the old cabinet. And Quinn’s focus stayed on the path ahead, grateful for the bright September Harvest Moon and hoping their plan to enlist the beavers could be completed by November’s Beaver Moon.

As they neared Abigail’s apartment, the night air grew still. The warm scent of autumn leaves mingled with the faint sweetness of drying grass, and the steady hum of crickets filled the silence between them. Ahead, a soft glow spilled from Abigail’s window with the flicker of lamplight dancing against the curtains.

Scout slowed first. Whispering, he said …

SCOUT: “She’s still awake.”

Quinn smiled faintly, his quills catching a shimmer of moonlight.

QUINN: “Of course she is. Abigail’s probably traced every mark on that map twice by now. OK, let’s not keep her waiting.”

WILEY: “If she hasn’t slept, it’s either good news or trouble. My bet’s on both.”

Together, they crossed the small clearing and quietly approached the apartment building where Abigail lived. Entering by a side door, they walked down the hall and stopped at her door. The rustle of movement inside told them the groundhogs were still gathered. As soon as Quinn knocked, a muffled voice from within called out … firm, alert, and unmistakably Abigail’s.

ABIGAIL: “Come in, quickly now! You won’t believe what I’ve found!”

The door opened before Quinn could knock a second time. Warm lamplight spilled into the hallway, and Abigail Newton stood framed in the doorway, calm but alert … a faint dusting of age on her sleeves from the old cabinet, the ancient map spread across the living room table behind her, and determination shining in her eyes.

ABIGAIL: “You made good time. Come in, all of you.”

Scout and Quinn stepped inside, shaking the evening chill from their fur. Wiley hesitated at the threshold, his whiskers twitching as he looked up at her … the woman whose name had long been a legend in his family’s stories.

WILEY: “So, you’re Abigail Newton. My uncle Willie used to tell tales about you and Sebastian, how you stood your ground against the truckers like an oak in a storm.”

Abigail smiled, the corners of her eyes softening.

ABIGAIL: “And you must be Wiley Weasel. Scout said you were quick to think and quicker to act. I’m glad you’ve joined us. We’ll need both of those gifts.”

WILEY: “Aw, thanks, Miss Abigail. If that’s Brenston Beaver’s work on your table, then you’ve got my full attention.”

ABIGAIL: “Good. Because while you were gone, I found something new! I decided to search again, and behind a false panel, tucked in the back, was this …”

She laid a small, weathered field journal on the table. Its cover was cracked, the pages brittle with age.

ABIGAIL: “It’s Brenston’s logbook, the key to his markings. His paw prints were field notes, not just symbols. Each one describes the conditions of a specific site, characterized by either strong currents, unstable crossings, or spring floods. And here …”

After flipping to a page covered in faint ink, Abigail continued …

ABIGAIL: “he writes about the Isle of Ills. Brenston already knew what poisoned land could do; he’d seen it in Westphalia when the skunks were driven out by the pollution caused by the explosion in Sebastian’s lab. In the logbook, Brenston writes about how the waters on the Isle of Ills were dead, the air heavy with fumes, and the earth itself burned. And that’s when he began marking the rivers, not just as warnings, but as defenses. He wanted future generations to know where to act, if and when the land might again become sick.”

WILEY: “Then, these aren’t just warnings; they’re instructions.”

QUINN: “And a call to action.”

Abigail met their eyes in turn, her voice steady …

ABIGAIL: “It’s late. Let’s rest for a few hours and meet first thing in the morning for breakfast before we get going.”

Stifling a yawn, Scout said …

SCOUT: “That’s probably the best idea I’ve heard all night.”

Wiley nodded, though his eyes still gleamed with energy.

WILEY: “Fine by me. After breakfast, Quinn and I will head for the riverbank. If the beavers are still working that stretch near the old mill, we’ll find them.”

ABIGAIL: “Perfect. You’ll need to explain what we’ve learned — and show them Brenston’s marks. Tell them the crossings aren’t just stories; they’re instructions. If they can dam those points, they can stop the methane before it reaches Hell’s Bells.”

She turned toward the groundhogs, who were already beginning to murmur among themselves.

ABIGAIL: “General Beauregard, you’ll lead your team east — spread word to as many groundhogs as you can. They need to know what’s happening and how the flow of water might change the land above and below the rivers once the dams are built.”

Beauregard puffed up with pride, giving a brisk nod to his fellow groundhogs … Punxsutawney Phil, Buckeye Chuck, and Pierre Shadeaux, who had naturally gathered around him.

BEAUREGARD: “Consider it done, ma’am. The groundhogs of this valley will be ready.”

ABIGAIL: “As for me, I’ll speak with my neighbors at sunrise. They’ll see changes in the river once the beavers begin. We can’t risk panic; we’ll need their cooperation.”

Quinn rolled up the map carefully.

QUINN: “Then it’s settled. We rest now, and at daybreak, the work begins.”

The group exchanged weary but hopeful glances. Outside, the crickets had fallen silent, and the first breeze of morning stirred through the grasslands as though the land itself were listening.

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