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2017-07-30 02:15 am (UTC)
Low lights don't matter much. Logan's got a flashlight still in the glove compartment of his truck.
The woods press in, shapes looming, but there's degrees to all those shades of black and gray. Logan can see well enough.
More importantly, he can
everything that's moving. Wind scratching leaves against each other. Squirrels shifting up high in the branches.
His boots aren't the quietest, though. After a moment's consideration, weighing how seriously he's about to take this, Logan stops where he is.
He leaves them behind, socks stuffed inside the mouths of each boot. Bare feet weigh heavy on the grass, but he's almost completely silent now.
He breathes in, slow and deep, one hand resting on a nearby tree. Apparently, that fucker didn't run too far.
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