As the branch cracks and breaks, he runs forward with a gasp, dropping to the ground next to ... what sure is a man ... in a hoodie ... with a cat. But why is he speaking bad English, of all things? He's a little embarrassed for him.

"Hello," he tries again, in accented English, tending more towards the UK than to America. "Are you injured, sir? Is this your cat?"

Someone appropriately attuned might be able to sense something odd about him, beyond his weirdly open manner and his shallow affect: a hole, almost, gaping within his psyche, tainted. As if something dark and alien intruded, and made itself at home, and then was forcibly removed.