Excerpt: No idea!

Grouse thrummed all around him, the mindless drumming of so many wings in the remaining pockets of darkness that the trees huddled to keep seemed to taunt the oncoming light. Whatever orgies they punctuated would soon be burned away by the full light of dawn. Already the puffed banks of fog were rolling down the ridge towards the river below. It was far better, Hugo supposed, then the cicada locusts who’d finally gone silent with the first frost. He was glad to have them gone, the little bastards ratcheting all night and day with that annoying song that meant it was too hot to sleep or eat. Too hot to work or walk. Too hot to do anything. And although the chill made his gimped leg ache and throb, he was glad to feel it. The song of the grouse meant food. The locusts meant paralysis, and he’d already had enough of that to serve a lifetime.