He was about to head off along his normal route, searching out the places where mushrooms grew when he noticed that the plastic bag was moving. He stopped. The bag moved again. It should have been down to the wind. That would have been best. But there wasn’t a breath of wind among the tree trunks. Not good. He heard a faint rustling noise as the piece of plastic shifted again, and all of a sudden his legs felt heavy. The forest surrounded him, silent and indifferent, and he was all alone in the world with whatever was in the plastic bag. Lennart swallowed, his throat dry, and moved forward a few steps. The bag was motionless now. Go home. Ignore it. He didn’t want to see an old dog who had almost, but only almost, been put out of its misery, or a pile of kittens with skulls that had almost, but only almost, been smashed. He didn’t want anything to do with that. He grabbed hold of the piece of plastic and immediately leapt back, his hands flying up to his mouth. There was something inside the bag, something that had responded to his grip, something that felt like muscles, flesh. The earth around the bag had recently been disturbed. A grave. A little grave. The thought gave rise to a series of associations and suddenly Lennart knew exactly what had responded to his hand. Another hand. A very small hand. Lennart edged back to the bag and began to clear away the earth. It didn’t take long; the soil had beenthrown carelessly over the bag, probably by someone without any tools, and in ten seconds Lennart had freed the bag and pulled it out of the hole.