The shape at the ice is not a person.

It waddles. It is a moving bush of quills. Eyes catch your lamp and throw it back—the night-mirror, the tapetum, a hunter’s and a snack-thief’s trick. Thistle, looking for salt, looking like a ghost if you only have the word ghost handy.

You stay on packed snow. Thistle stays Thistle. The treaty holds.

A porcupine is a better ending than a panic. It is also a better poster.

Two pulses of looking, because one look is a rumor. Quills. Waddle. Eyeshine. You do not invent a third option that needs rescuing from ice. Thistle did not come for you. Thistle came for salt.