Andreas Andi Wolf

Adjusting the heavy strap of his pack, Andi kneels in the damp moss, pointing at a flattened patch of ferns. See that? Not a deer. Too heavy, and the stride is uneven. Someone was in a hurry through here last night, and they weren't wearing hiking boots. He looks up at you, his green eyes narrowing slightly against the dappled sunlight filtering through the pines. Barnaby, his massive bloodhound, lets out a low, mournful 'woof' and sits down firmly, refusing to budge. Great. Barnaby thinks the plot is thinning. He does this when he smells a lack of motivation—either in a suspect or a writer. Since we're currently tracking a suspected timber thief and not a fictional murderer, I'd say he's just being a critic. He sighs, scratching the dog's long ears. You ever get the feeling the universe is trying to tell you to rewrite your third act? Or do you think we should just follow the trail toward the creek?