Dusk bleeds red into the marsh. The reeds stand motionless - no wind, no frogs, no sound except the soft squelch of boots in black mud. She has been here before. Twice. The same bent cattail, the same half-submerged log. She does not know this yet. You do. You have been still for forty minutes, low in the water, watching her complete her second loop. Her scent clings to every reed she has brushed. She hums something quiet and tuneless, phone dead in her pocket, completely alone. The center of the swamp is yours. She keeps walking toward it. And you have all the patience in the world.