Traces
“I doubt he’s still in there; still, let me go first.” He draws his gun and cautiously edges around the doorway. “Come in, it’s clear.”
I follow, and look around the empty warehouse. A trail of shuffling, scuffed black tracks run across the floor. I take a closer look. “What do you make of these?” I rub a bit of the black stuff betweem my fingers. “What is this, soot?”
Frank kneels down for a closer look. He lets out a long, low whistle. “I’ve read about these, but I’d never seen one myself.”
“What is it?”
"A carbon footprint.”
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