As each painful nanosecond of silence ticked by, Danger's charcoal hackles lifted higher . . . higher . . . his dark fur prickling nervously as if expecting lightning to strike. Misty's strangled attempts at speech--at least, he thought she was trying to speak--seemed more slightly less forced every time her lungs managed to rake in some air. Yep: something was definitely wrong. Was she sick? She didn't smell sick; if anything, her girlishly sweet perfume exuded health. The only other dominant scent Danger detected was the pungent odor of greenness surrounding them both. "Yes . . ." the dog answered in reply to her inquiry. He wondered guardedly if the she-wolf were teasing him somehow. Was it because he had made a noise when those thorns grabbed him? Ohhhh great. Now Misty thought he was some sort of weakling pup. Or perhaps she couldn't see him properly?

Danger experimentally stretched his neck forward, the sensitive whiskers of his muzzle brushing uncomfortably close to another cluster of vicious thorns. They smelled . . . odd. Something different spiced their odor that Danger had never come across before--and he would know, having to rely as heavily on his sense of smell as he did. Meanwhile poor Misty was apparently trying to nod her head for him; Danger heard the soft rustle of forest debris under her fur as well as the rubber-band-taut creak of her stiff muscles.

He almost put out a useless eye when Misty opened her maw again, jerking his cranium around in surprise. Water? At a time like this? Abruptly Danger made the horrifying connection between thorns and Misty's condition. The plants must have excreted some sort of low-grade poison from their sharp claws. Crap--Danger didn't know anything about plants! Was there an antidote?! Panicking, the sooty soldier turned tail and headed straight for the nearest source of water. Belatedly he realized that he should have told Misty where he was going. Poor wolfess probably thought he was leaving her to die . . .

Bright Moon was laced with plenty of fresh tributaries, feeding into larger rivers on its outskirts, but Danger ignored all of their burbling music. His hypersensitive snout led him straight to a small pool of water modestly enclosed in a thicket nearby, quietly fed by an underground spring. He gripped a huge mouthful of springy moss blossoming around the rocky bank and immediately plunged it into the crystalline liquid. The bundle of green soaked it up like a sponge. Awesome. That accomplished, Danger trotted out and bolted back to Misty--

Only to trip and face-plant gracelessly a mere yard from where she lay. The water-soaked moss slapped wetly on the earth. His thorn-scratched legs had momentarily seized up: useless as four twigs. Grunting, Danger heaved himself back up and--after making the decision between throwing himself off a cliff or saving Misty--plodded toward the compromised lady. With nothing but whiskers to guide him the shadow-painted phantom dipped his crown low, avoiding the worst pointy knots, trying to get the moss-sponge as close to Misty as he could.