Night Chills by Dean Koontz

Mark were not interested in the scenery. Their attention was fixed on a small, red-brown squirrel.
    For the past five days they had been putting out food for the squirrel—dry roasted peanuts and sectioned apples—hoping to make friends with it and gradually to domesticate it. Day by day it crept closer to the food, and yesterday it took a few bites before succumbing to fear and scampering away.
    Now, as they watched, it came forth from the perimeter of the woods, three or four quick yet cautious steps at a time, pausing again and again to study the man and boy. When it finally reached the food, it picked up a piece of the apple in its tiny forepaws and, sitting back on its haunches, began to eat.
    When the animal finished the first slice and picked up another, Mark said, “He won’t take his eyes off us. Not even for a second.”
    As the boy spoke the squirrel became suddenly as still as they were. It cocked its head and fixed them with one large brown eye.
    Paul had said they could whisper, breaking their rule of silence, if the squirrel had gained courage since yesterday and managed to stay at the food for more than a few seconds. If they were to domesticate it, the animal would have to become accustomed to their voices.
    “Please don’t be scared,” Mark said softly. Paul had promised that, if the squirrel could be tamed, Mark would be allowed to take it home and make a pet of it. “Please, don’t run away.”
    Not yet prepared to trust them, it dropped the slice of apple, turned, bounded into the forest, and scrambled to the upper branches of a maple tree.
    Mark jumped up. “Ah, heck! We wouldn’t have hurt you, you dumb squirrel!” Disappointment lined his face.
    “Stay calm. He’ll be back again tomorrow,” Paul said. He stood and stretched his stiff muscles.
    “He’ll never trust us.”
    “Yes, he will. Little by little.”
    “We’ll never tame him.”
    “Little by little,” Paul said. “He can’t be converted in one week. You’ve got to be patient.”
    “I’m not very good at being patient.”
    “I know. But you’ll learn.”
    “Little by little?”
    “That’s right,” Paul said. He bent over, picked up the apple slices and peanuts, and dropped them into a plastic bag.
    “Hey,” Mark said, “maybe he’s mad at us because we always take the food when we leave.”
    Paul laughed. “Maybe so. But if he got in the habit of sneaking back and eating after we’ve gone, he wouldn’t have any reason to come out while we’re here.”
    As they started back toward camp, which lay at the far end of the two-hundred-yard-long mountain meadow, Paul gradually became aware again of the beautiful day as if it were a mosaic for all the senses, falling into place around him, piece by piece. The warm summer breeze. White daisies gleaming in the grass, and here and there a butter-cup. The odor of grass and earth and wild flowers. The constant rustle of leaves and the gentle soughing of the breeze in the pine boughs. The trilling of birds. The solemn shadows of the forest. High above, a hawk wheeled into sight, the last piece of the mosaic; its shrill cry seemed filled with pride, as if it knew that it had capped the scene, as if it thought it had pulled down the sky with its wings.
    The time had come for their weekly trip into town to replenish their supply of perishable goods—but for a moment he didn’t want to leave the mountain. Even Black River—small, nearly isolated from the modern world, singularly peaceful—would seem raucous when compared to the serenity of the forest.
    But of course Black River offered more than fresh eggs, milk, butter, and other groceries: Jenny was there.
    As they drew near the camp, Mark ran ahead. He pushed aside a pair of yellow canvas flaps and peered into the large tent that they had erected in the shadow of several eight-foot hemlocks and firs. A second later he turned away from the tent, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “Rya! Hey,