All during that time, every evening spent on the deck with the radio spilling the sounds of Busch Stadium into the dense night, the birdhouse sat empty

Steve took a two-week business trip to inspect shipping operations for one of his company's subsidiaries in Vermont. When he returned, he expected to see some sign that the house was finally occupied.

It was, as far as he could tell, not.

He drove past Otto's farm every day on his way to work and on his way home. Each time, he wrestled with the idea of turning off onto the bumpy, overgrown road and confronting the old man. But he always talked himself out of it. It wasn't as if he'd forced Steve to buy it.

Then, Steve found the dead rabbit....

Or rather, bits of it.

He was mowing the back lawn, a thin strip that seemed more of a beach holding back the dark sea of trees that cupped Steve's house on three sides.

As he finished, he steered the mower to the birdhouse pole, to go around the base and take care of as much of the grass that had grown up around the concrete hole the post was planted in. He'd get the rest later with the trimmer.

Nearing, he noticed a ragged, brownish clump on the ground. Thinking it a rag he'd left or a clot of dead grass clippings from last week's mowing, he bent to pick it up, throw it into the woods.

The stench got to him just a heartbeat before he saw what the clump was.

It was identifiable as a rabbit only by its size and its faun brown fur, with little tufts of cottontail white here and there.

Grimacing, Steve prodded it with his toe, and it moved stiffly, like a heavily starched shirt.

"Max," he said to himself, shaking his head.

No wonder he's so lazy today, he thought. He ate an entire rabbit.

As this moved through his mind, he absently leaned his weight against the still-running mower, which shifted forward, tapped the metal pole of the birdhouse.

Steve let loose of the handle, and the safety bar disengaged.

The mower sputtered and died.

As its sound faded, Steve lifted his head slowly to the gleaming steel birdhouse, its pole still wobbling slightly.

Up there, inside, something was moving....

There was a sound like scratching against the metal, a rasping flutter of feathers.

Steve noticed several strands of hay or grass sticking from the entrance.

Something had moved in.

He pulled the mower away from the pole, suddenly careful not to upset whatever was up there.