The roadkill scuffle down the trail in the moonlight.

They're easy to follow without being seen on account of the decrepit quality of their eyeballs. And olfactory glands. And hearing.

I flit silently among the tree tops nonetheless. Yellow Birch School style.

It's a squad from Ranger Rotten's gang, bringing in their haul for the night. Garbage sacks full of tin cans and eggshells. Coffee grinds and orange peels. A few iPhones.

They're headed to the old abandoned factory east of school. The superfund site. We Weasel Creek kids stay upstream and upwind from that area.

No wonder Ranger Rotten had been able to keep the size of his operation under wraps for this long.

We Weasel Creek kids like to keep a low profile. We don't need the groundskeepers to come tearing our tree houses down. We've made a nice community for ourselves here in the woods and we aim to keep it that way.