Having left the abnormally large gathering of wolves around the water, Foxtail heads east, toward the rocky overhang where she had last seen the only remaining member of her pack. The sun is already hanging low on the western horizon, and by the time she reaches the far eastern edge of the massive crater, the stars have crept into the now-violet sky. Her usual quick pace is hampered by the day’s fresh snowfall, and she leaves an obvious trail of too-large footprints and occasional depressions where she stumbles and lost her footing. Foxtail is not a graceful creature – that had been Bramble’s calling – but the rust-colored wolf is determined, and does not stop until she reaches her destination.

There is no one there.

She should not be surprised, she tells herself as she looks up at the darkening sky. He’s been gone for months now, since mid-summer. Foxtail can only assume that one of the packs had taken him, vicious as they often are to a dominant lone wolf. Foxtail has only survived this long by fleeing, turning tail and running whenever she came across the ranging groups of hunters. She has lived in this crater for nearly a half-year now, and she is as much a stranger as she been on that first day – no, worse, because now she is truly a lone wolf.

Though the snow is piled deeply around the base of the overhang, Foxtail’s large paws have always been good at digging, and she has soon scraped out a wolf-sized hollow with the smooth rock as a roof. It reminds her of the den on the mountainside, and the female wolf fights down a moment of nausea. Tybalt and Bramble are probably together now, she thinks, together in the After with the pups that had never been born.

Crawling into her make-shift shelter, Foxtail turns in the small space and lies down, with only her long nose sticking out of the shadow. She does not sleep, not right away, but rather watches the empty world around her with her flat golden eyes.