Leaves were falling all around him—reds, yellows, oranges, and some retaining bits of green, reflecting clearly off of the blank surfaces of Snake’s olive eyes. The child was lurking in the tall grass and undergrowth, neither hiding nor stalking anything. No, he was doing nothing except waiting. What for? He didn’t really know. Months ago he was little different than he was now, except he was simply inexperienced. It would be many weeks before Patriot influenced he and his brother into shifting prematurely, and inciting Foxhound to attack and almost-mortally wound his brother.


The lithe coyote started to sneak through the grass, his belly perhaps an inch above the ground. He could see himself from above in his mind’s eye, a kind of spy, assassin, on a stealth mission. He attempted to make as little sound as possible, and his eyes were quick to try and find some sort of target. The grasses became shorter, the undergrowth thinner, and he spotted a branch that had snapped off of a tree and was lying on the ground. A perfect target for the young hunter—he slunk back into the shielding of the foliage and, moments later, sprung at the stick. He grasped it in his strong teeth and bit down, instantly shattering the brittle branch.


Snake bounded away, glancing over his shoulder to survey his handiwork. He was pleased, and the ghost of a smile appeared on his childish face.