Thunderstruck, Abigail stared at the ancient map — a relic that still bore the timeless imprint of Brenston Beaver’s paw. Each mark burned with warning: fierce currents demanding double dams, floods rising with the spring thaws, and at the Eastern Crossing, ground so unstable it could never be trusted.

Her first impulse was to rush out the door. The groundhogs clustered at her feet, eyes bright, ready to follow if she led them toward Quinn and Scout on their way to Wiley Weasel’s burrow.

But reason held her back. Quinn had promised to return as soon as possible, and Abigail knew the map’s secrets would reveal themselves more fully once Quinn and Scout returned with Wiley. So, instead of rushing off, she forced herself to wait — channeling her urgency into careful action: further studying Brenston’s markings, searching the old cabinet for clues she might have missed, and readying herself for whatever news the trio would bring when they returned.

Meanwhile, Scout led the way, the moonlight glinting off his tail. He knew exactly where his cousin Wiley lived. The burrow was just a short distance away in grasslands along the road where Wiley had made himself comfortable in an abandoned mole tunnel.

Before entering the tunnel, Scout paused near its entrance, his nose twitching at the familiar scent of weasel and warm earth. He gave a short hiss, followed by a soft chirp — their signal for “it’s me, cousin.”

From inside came a scuffling sound, then Wiley’s voice — quick, alert, and edged with amusement.

WILEY: “Hey up there, Scout! I can smell you before I see you. Out enjoying the evening air, or are you up to something? Come on down!”

SCOUT: “Ha, thanks for the compliment. Coming down — but I’m not alone this time.”

Scout, with Quinn following close behind, scurried down Wiley’s mole hole and through the narrow tunnel.

SCOUT: “Wiley, meet my new friend Quinn — an investigative reporter with a gift for bringing the right creatures together when it matters most.”

Wiley’s eyes glinted with curiosity.

WILY: “Reporter, huh? So tell me, just who are you bringing together? I assume this must be why you’re here — you want me to be part of this gathering. I can’t wait to hear what’s up.”

QUINN: “It’s an honor to meet you, Wiley. Scout told me that, like your Uncle Willie, you’ve helped more than a few friends — even when the odds were against you. A woman named Abigail sent us to find you. She needs your help!”

WILEY: “Abigail Newton? Uncle Willie’s always telling us about the night she and Scout’s dad, Sebastian, stood their ground against truckers trying to clear her land. Said she never backed down — not once.”

SCOUT: “That’s her, all right — still standing her ground. But now it’s not truckers, it’s the black snake of the Predator Pipeline, its leaking pipes poisoning the precious waters of our streams and rivers.”

QUINN: “Wiley, you need to know that Abigail found Brenston Beaver’s original map — the one charting our rivers and streams here in Beaver County. She believes it could help stop the pipeline before it reaches the Hell’s Bells plant. But she can’t do it alone — that’s why we need you.”

Wiley’s expression shifted — still curious, but now edged with respect.

WILEY: “If Abigail Newton’s calling, then something big must be at stake. All right, tell me more.”

SCOUT: “You are right, she’s onto something big. Turns out Brenston Beaver’s ancient map isn’t just part of your Uncle Willie’s story — it’s real, paw marks and all.”

WILEY: “Well, I’ll be… Brenston’s paw prints? I thought those were just bedtime tales. What’s she found?”

QUINN: “Warnings. Each marking on the map shows danger points across the valley — places where the ground shifts, and where the water is too strong to hold. Abigail believes we need the beavers to stop the black snake’s reach.”

WILEY: “But tell me this — why the beavers? What can they do against a monster buried beneath the ground?”

SCOUT: “Because that’s what they do best, Wiley — they reshape the land. If anyone can slow the black snake, it’s the beavers. Abigail believes they can redirect the flow, reinforce the weak crossings, and — forgive the expression — dam up the works before the methane can reach Hell’s Bells.”

Wiley flicked his whiskers thoughtfully, tail giving a slow sweep across the tunnel floor.

WILEY: “Hmph. Redirect the flow, reinforce the crossings, dam up the works…”

He looked from Scout to Quinn, a spark of admiration creeping into his eyes. “

WILEY: “You know, that actually makes sense. Risky, sure — but clever. If Abigail Newton believes the beavers can pull this off, then I’m in. But how can I help?”

QUINN: “Scout tells me that you’ve got a way with words — that you can convince the beavers to join us in the fight.”

WILEY: “Like my ancient Uncle Wilhelm and my dad, Willie, I’ve always been a better talker than listener. I can get them to trust me — probably why you came to me in the first place.”

Quinn gave a small, approving nod.

Darting into a side passage, Wiley returned moments later with a small, weathered satchel slung across his shoulder.

WILEY: “Let’s go! No sense letting the moonlight go to waste.”

QUINN: “Onward, then — back to Abigail!”

The three climbed from the burrow into the open grasslands, the silver light of the moon stretching before them like a path already waiting.

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