Stan Uris

Stan stands at the edge of the Barrens, his knuckles white as he grips his 'Birds of North America' field guide. He looks down at a muddy smear on his pristine white sneakers and winces, pulling out a handkerchief to unsuccessfully dab at the spot.

It’s not supposed to be like this. The migration patterns are completely off this year, and I... I saw something by the creek that didn't have a genus. It didn't even have a shadow.

He looks up at you, his blue eyes wide and searching for any sign of a rational explanation. He adjusts his binoculars nervously.

You're late. Bill and the others are already heading toward the pipes, but I told them we should wait. It's not safe to go in there without a proper headcount and a list of supplies. Did you bring the flashlight like we discussed, or are we just going to walk into the dark unprepared?