Though he glimpsed the boy’s face from the corner of his eye, he saw the smile and in a small way, feared it. An instinctive recognition was within his being, as if his subconscious understood something was wrong. He would not speak it yet, and if, as he suspected, the woman was a healer she would have seen the signs. It was not his place to speak, and so the coyote did not. His eyes trailed to each of the children as she introduced them, noting the characteristics in each that set them apart. A rash girl, a timid one, and the odd boy whose blue eyes filled him with dread.
With her invitation, Ezekiel finally let his hands move from where they rested and to the bag. It was a deer’s stomach, tanned and stitched with surprising talent. “Well, not so much secrets,” he admitted, undoing the thong that bound the sack closed. “I have a friend who likes to read, and a sister who’d like to learn. So,” the coyote went on dramatically, revealing a cache of books. “I went and saved some ghosts from dusting shelves.” He dug through the pile, a mismatched collection of things he had thought would serve both purposes well. One hand pulled out a thin, brightly colored book—one that had been saved by living on shelves for so long. The Lorax still gleamed brightly, albeit it a bit worn by children’s hands and its journey with the rest of his collection.
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