“What is it, old guy?” she said as she walked toward the camper. “This your home?” She headed toward the front steps, stopping to rub the dog on the head. “Whose idea was it to park over here?” she asked as she stood up, glanced around, and finally knocked on the door. “Hello,” she called out. “Anybody home?” There was no response except the whining of the dog. The camper had been backed into the small space. There were no tracks coming in from behind, just the ones in front of the rig, a wide curve to the right, and then a straight movement to the rear, stopping in the position in which it now rested. As she stood waiting at the steps, Rose did notice, however, another set of tracks following up the drive. At first, she thought that maybe the driver had pulled up and backed in a couple of times before getting his rig like he wanted it; that perhaps he or she had even realized that this was not part of the working campground and was going to exit. When she looked more closely, however, she realized that the other tracks were different.
