The weather. Tomorrow, expect a... Biting cold front. Mmm, how naughty. I wonder what I'll be wearing or taking off. The night will be wild and untamed. Expect heavy, lashing rain that'll soak you to the skin. By Monday, temperatures will rise, slowly but surely, reaching their peak in the afternoon.

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I always brought two drinks up the tower crane with me,

one thermos for coffee and a bottle for the stronger stuff. I kept it tucked deep in my rucksack, half wrapped in an old flannel to keep it from clinking.

I sipped it slowly, just enough to keep the shake out of my hands as the moon rose, and up

there, above the trees, no one could see.

The shakes had gotten worse since I came out here. I wasn't proud of it, but you sit

up in a steel box 140 meters off the ground with nothing but wind and birds for company. Eventually, you'd

need something to pass the time. I had a book my daughter Ellie gave me on my lap, a stiff

little paperback called Field Guide to North American Cryptids in bright red lettering.

It was clearly a kid's book.

She'd handed it to me during my last visit back in Truro and said it was to keep me company.

I laughed and told her she was nuts, but she just rolled her eyes and said,

You'll read it when you're bored.

She was right.

When I first opened it,

there was a yellow sticky note in a handwriting stuck on the front page.

It read,

Don't get eaten, Dad.

You're too grumpy for that.

...