There it was, directly ahead. He saw the wide curve in the stream, the reed tops sticking up from down there on the bank, and he was walking closer. The moon was gone a moment, off behind a cloud, making him stop. Then the moon was back, and he started walking again. He was almost there. He looked down at the reeds and hoped that he would see the animal, but he didn't. He strained to notice some sign of movement, but there wasn't any. Then he glanced around him, up and down the stream. There was just the silver-tinted water, shallow, rippling on the stones. For sure if the raccoon were here, he would have seen it. Then it must be hiding in the reeds.

But how to go about this? First Warren walked a distance back and scrambled down the bank. The slope was steeper than it looked. He ended with one sneaker in the stream. The water shocked him, and he lurched back onto the shore. He had no socks on, and the water sloshed within his sneaker, cold and faintly greasy, draining out. He shook his foot, and then his skin adjusted, and he put the foot down on the shore. It sank into mud as had the other. He revolted, and the sneakers made a sucking noise as he stepped onto firmer ground. Now he'd really fixed things. He had mud upon his sneakers, and his mother couldn't help but see that. Surely she would know. He almost panicked. Then he thought of water-he could wash them-and the image of that drinking fountain came to him, and he knew that he could wash them there. He began to feel relieved.

He stepped a little closer to the reeds, worried that the noise he'd made had scared the raccoon into its hole. He had almost dropped the bag of crackers, and now he clutched it to him, drops of water on it and on his hand. He crouched, peering in through the reeds, but there was nothing he could see. The reeds were thick and dark, and he would never find the hole. All the same, he peered as close as he could manage, his face up even with the reeds. Still, he couldn't see. For all he knew, the raccoon was right there in front of him, and if it didn't move, there wasn't any way for him to know. Then he thought that where the raccoon went down into the stream and then turned back and went up to its hole, there had to be a little path, a kind of tunnel within the reeds. He stood and looked down at the stream and made his choice. Bracing himself against the shock, he stepped with both feet into the stream, waded, then turned to face the reeds.

At first, Warren didn't notice it. Then he did. A little burrow in the reeds, a kind of channel where the raccoon came and went. Somewhere up inside would be the hole. He stooped and opened the sack of crackers, reaching in to grab a few. "Here, coon," he was saying softly, but he didn't like the noise, and so he switched to whistling, short and low. He didn't like that either, but he liked it better than his voice, and so he kept on whistling, pulling out the crackers, throwing them. They rat-tied up the passage in the reeds. "Here, coon," he was saying and then caught himself and started whistling once again. He threw a few more crackers, listened harder, but there wasn't any movement.

What to do? Warren crouched a good deal closer, the crackers in his hand. He thought that he would throw them like the others. Then he thought that he would reach in with them. Maybe it would take the crackers from his hand. He held them at the entrance. He reached his hand up in there, watching the hand disappear, And that was when he heard it over to his right. He looked. It was coming down the bank. It seemed to be off balance. "Hi, coon," he was saying. "Here's some crackers for you." But it didn't stop. It just kept coming, and it made a hiss. He had never heard a sound quite like it, something like a cat, but not exactly, and it kept on coming, hissing, and he had his hand out with the cracker, thinking it was going to eat, already knowing how he'd reach to grab it firmly behind the ears, just the way his father had shown him how to grab a cat, and it was past the cracker, its teeth sunk into his hand.

"Aaiieee!" Warren jumped up, stumbling into the stream. The raccoon was attached to him, its mouth sunk into his hand, its weight suspended so it dragged him downward, almost falling into the stream. He couldn't bear the pain, the sharp teeth biting, tearing, scraping on a bone, his flesh now ripping from the weight of what was hanging on him. He was struggling for his balance, flailing, grabbing at the raccoon to free it, swinging, jerking with his arm, and then he swept around and flung the arm, and he was free of all that weight, the raccoon flipping through the air, thudding on the other bank. Warren didn't have a chance to marvel at his strength. The animal was bigger than he'd thought, almost half his size. And heavy-he'd expected he could lift it like it was a cat, and here it felt like someone he was wrestling with.

The force of flinging it away had toppled him against the bank, and he was scrambling to his feet now as the raccoon came for him again. It must have hurt itself when it had landed. It was limping, listing to one side as it surged across the stream. It hissed, and Warren was scrambling with his back against the slope, staring down and kicking with both shoes. The raccoon snapped and bit and got one shoe and wrenched its head from side to side as if to tear a piece away, and Warren felt its teeth go into his foot, and he was kicking at it with his other shoe, ramming down against the raccoon's nose, and then Warren's foot was free, and he was scrambling farther up the slope. That pointed nose, those bandit eyes, he had thought that they were cute, and now he couldn't stop from screaming at the terror of them. He was at the top now, feeling where its breath was at his ankles, jumping up to run, and he could hear it hissing there behind him as he ran with all the power of his fright. He had never run so fast before, his legs stretched out beneath him, his chest on fire, gasping, choking, crying, and the thing kept on behind him, and he kept on running, and he turned to see how close it was and rammed against a tree.

He fell back, his shoulder smarting, and sprawled across the grass. He didn't know how long he'd been there, blinking, straining to move. He fumbled to his hands and knees. The thing was very close. He couldn't see it, but he sensed that it was near, and he was stumbling to his feet. He turned and lost his balance, reaching for the tree. He shook his head and heard the hissing behind him, turned to kick at it, and there it was, but it was nowhere close, out there in the moonlight, turning in a circle, limping, lurching in a circle. He had never seen any animal behave like that. But he didn't stay to watch.

He suddenly was running again, his legs unsteady, his breath an effort, stumbling, his arms out to keep balance, and he didn't stop until he was almost to the lane. He limped along it, his hand on fire. Then he started running once more. He didn't even think to watch out for that family's dog down there. He just kept running. Then he crossed the side street toward the last part of the lane, and he was limping again, looking back to see if it was after him. It wasn't, and he looked down toward his house now, walking slowly toward it, his injured hand oozing blood, warm and sticky, making him wince from the pain. He realized that he had dropped his sack of crackers at the stream. He didn't know why that should seem important, but it was, and he couldn't help sobbing. Then he started across the backyard toward his house.

He worried, not just because his wound hurt and he didn't know if it was bad but as well because his mother couldn't help seeing it. She'd be angry, knowing what he'd done. I have to hide it, he thought. How he didn't know. Keep his hand in his pocket. Stay away from her. Even if she didn't find out until tomorrow night, that would give him time to say it had happened in the afternoon. A dog perhaps. A cat. He couldn't decide. But for sure, he couldn't let her know the truth. He reached the porch, thinking he would climb up, but he didn't have the strength, so he walked around the front and went up softly onto the porch. In the glow of streetlights, he saw his hand, and it was ugly, caked with dirt and blood, the flesh all torn and jagged. He was frightened by it, put his good hand over it, and quickly looked away.