Amanda ducked under the short bit of brush, taking advantage of the rare slab of spotty shade. She was familiar with this particular shrub; it bloomed with little yellow blossoms every season, attracting every bee within what she professionally guessed to be a four-million-mile radius. Not that she had been stung several times and harbored a grudge, or anything. Still, the cat’s-claw acacia made up for it by being one of the few pieces of greenery in a waypoint that was otherwise hot sand… and the blossoms did smell nice. She inhaled deeply, but only a vaguely earthy, root-ish scent came from the barren scrub brush now. A verdin took flight from one of the top branches, its compact grey body disappearing against the sun as it chattered angrily down to her.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFBFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Sorry,”</span></span>she muttered, unable to repress the sarcastic tone in her voice or the slight eye-roll at the little bird’s overreaction.<br/><br/>The ranger delved into her shorts pocket and produced a small notebook and golf pencil, then flipped open to a fresh page. Her scribbles while observing waypoints always ended up far sloppier than her scribbles anywhere else, and were invariably indecipherable to everyone except Brady and Miriam (herself included).<span style="font-style: italic">701420, 1576090, verdin sighting &amp;</span>– she paused and glanced upward, sharp eyes filtering out the branches of the acacia until she could differentiate the rounded, tiny bundle of dried twigs and leaves –<span style="font-style: italic"> nest</span>. Ideally, she should record the presence of any eggs in the nest, but a five-and-a-quarter foot height made even the short trees beyond her limit. She added the current time to her scribbles and stuffed the notebook back in her pocket, replacing it in her hand with a water bottle from the knapsack.<br/><br/>Her uncomfortably warm drink was interrupted by a muffled static from the depths of the pack. That was quick. Brady usually waited until she was past the third or fourth waypoint before telling her anything; she’d never asked why he didn’t just debrief her before she left, and he never volunteered his logic. Amanda slung the knapsack over her shoulder and pushed past the lightweight equipment, finally reaching the communicator.<span style="color: #FFBFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Yo,”</span></span>she said casually, thumb dropping from the button quickly.<br/><br/>“Did --- find th --- deer yet?” Brady’s voice had more static than a television from the 70s starring a robot astronaut, but she was usually able to interpret most of it.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFBFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Haven’t seen one. Reports come from close to second mark?”</span></span><br/><br/>“ --- eah, they --- ago, - ead one, little an - ”<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFBFBF"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Gotcha,”</span></span>she said with an air of finality, tossing the walkie-talkie back into her pack. She turned her face to the sun again, squinting as the shade from the brim of her hat receded. It was late in the day for there to still be carcasses out in the open, even if they weren’t fresh. The coyotes weren’t picky, but even if none of them were awake to find it there were still plenty of vultures and eagles about, and they should be able to make quick work of a small deer.<br/><br/>The ranger walking started again, her eyes scanning the ground for lumps or bumps that weren’t the rocky outcroppings she had come to know. One of the perks of running the same bit of terrain so regularly was that it became easy to know what was normal- and easy to identify what wasn’t.