Squirrel by day, Skunk by night.

The wall seam has become a kind of highway. In the daylight footage the squirrel appears, efficient and twitch-bright, stopping every few inches as if the siding itself is speaking to him. Tail flicking, body taut, he treats the wall like a problem that can be solved with speed.

After dark, it is Capital V.

I am fairly sure now that the shape moving along the seam at night is him, running the vertical crack with that deliberate confidence skunks carry. No rush. No apology. The black and white pattern slides past the camera like a warning label come to life.

Same route. Same camera. Different hours, different rules.

They never meet. The squirrel believes in escape. Capital V believes in certainty. The wall holds both beliefs without comment. A seam in the house, a seam in the day, quietly in use.

It makes the backyard feel layered, as if daylight and darkness take turns inhabiting it, sharing the infrastructure but not the philosophy. I only learn about it later, from the footage, when the house tells me what it has been hosting.

The seam remembers who passed, and when.