She has lost track of how long she has been running – it could be hours or even years – but no matter how far or quickly she runs, the pain remains wrapped around her heart, digging into her like brambles. She stumbles at the thought, losing the steady pace that she has kept up for so long, and collapses in the long grass with her pink tongue lolling between her sharp white teeth. For a long while she simply lays on her side, her breathing labored but slowly evening out, and the rapid thrumming of her heart returning to its normal beat. Overhead, the sun is half hidden by clouds that promise eventual rain, but Foxtail does not move to seek shelter.

When she closes her eyes, Foxtail sees her sister’s face, and she lets out an unconscious whine. They’d been standing beside the half-dug den (Bramble’s dark feet were caked in dirt), when she’d collapsed. At first Foxtail had assumed the puppies were coming early, and she’d hovered worriedly over her littermate, hoping that Tybalt would return from the hunt soon – surely he would know what to do? But hours had passed with Bramble unable to say a word, and Foxtail had crouched at her side, whining worriedly at the while. She’d dozed off accidentally, and when she had woken up, the light had gone from her sister’s eyes, leaving them glassy and unseeing.

She had howled her rage and anguish at the sky, pouring out her heart – and still the pain clung to her. So she had turned and ran, run as far as she could from the lush little valley that their small family had lived in so contentedly. She has not stopped running, not until she tripped and fell in the grassy meadow. A few drops of rain begin to fall, glistening on the long guard hairs of her rusty black coat. The sun is setting and she will soon be cold and wet, but Foxtail does nothing more than curl herself into a tight ball and cover her black nose with the end of her white-tipped tail.