As if anyone can control what one dreams. Well, maybe the skilled can. Louis doesn't have that acuity.

"Then I know you can keep a secret."

Without immediate explanation, he turns and steps lightly towards the deer carcass a short distance back. He kneels and pulls off a glove to run a hand over it in the dark. On a rangy wolf-harried deer, it's easy to find a thin-skinned spot on the neck. He bends over it like a dutiful nurse at someone's bedside. He bites down with a flash of white fangs and the blood enters his mouth like dark sludge.

He lifts his head and spits out the mouthful.

"It's too dead for me," he calls tiredly as he rises, as if he didn't just do a strange sequence of actions. It's rotten work, but he'll do it. He has to. "But I expected that. Another deer it is then. You can come with me or go hungry. Wipe that off your hands, you don't want to scare off prey or attract predators."

He's a shit hunter of game, but he knows that, at least.