“It has a name, Little Pond, often called Little North Pond, though the hermit doesn’t know it. He’s stripped the world to his essentials, and proper names are not essential. He knows the season, intimately, its every gradation. He knows the moon, a sliver less than half tonight, waning. Typically, he’d await the new moon—darker is better—but his hunger had become critical. He knows the hour and minute. He’s wearing an old windup watch to ensure that he budgets enough time to return before daybreak. He doesn’t know, at least not without calculating, the year or the decade.”

Finkel initially keeps the reader in suspense about the hermit’s identity but foreshadows almost all his methods in Chapter 1. Knight ignores location names and relies on natural timekeeping unless it is vital to his raids, like the windup watch. He looks to the moon for optimal cover but must compensate after staying at his campsite all winter. Finkel elaborates on the hermit’s reasoning after meeting him in person.

“The man is wearing new-looking blue jeans, a hooded gray sweatshirt beneath a nice Columbia jacket, and sturdy work boots. It’s like he has just gone shopping at the mall. His backpack is from L. L. Bean. Only his eyeglasses, with chunky plastic frames, seem outdated. There’s no dirt on him anywhere, and little more than a shading of stubble on his chin. He has no noticeable body odor. His thinning hair, mostly covered by his wool cap, is neatly cropped. His skin is strangely pale, with several scabs on his wrists. He’s a little over six feet tall and broad-shouldered, maybe one hundred and eighty pounds.”

Knight’s unremarkable appearance confuses law enforcement to the point that Officer Diane Vance believes that the North Pond hermit was a common thief all along. Eventually, the reader learns why Knight looks so average: He cleans up and wears ordinary clothing as part of his camouflage, and he never finds a replacement for his original glasses. The trees at his campsite protect him from sunburn, but the barely healed scars on his hands are the result of aging.

“The sounds passing through his mouth are stutter and clanky, an old engine struggling to turn over, each syllable a chore.”

Vance’s interrogation of Knight is the first conversation Knight has in 27 years. It’s the reader’s first sign that Knights conversational style is unusual, as his word choice is labored and book-like. Later, some doubtful residents believe his vocal cords should have withered from lack of use.