Ryan Wallace, seventeen and bone-thin in baggy clothes, hid behind fallen timber at the edge of the forest clearing. He rested the barrel of the .22 on a smooth groove of deadwood and watched the burrows scattered amongst the ripped earth and debris. Wagtails whistled in the branches above his head and somewhere across the ridge a sawmill-bound log truck knocked back gears on a sandy rise. He waited patiently, scanning the sunlit ground, and listened to the creatures waking and hustling in the scrub. He had an hour at best before dark. When a pair of ears came up…