A Fork in the Path

The forest floor rustled beneath my paws, a symphony of dried leaves and twigs that usually filled me with a thrill of adventure. But tonight, with the moon a sliver of bone in the inky sky and the shadows long and twisty, the rustling sounded more like a whisper of danger. My tummy rumbled, not with hunger, but with a hollow sort of fear. I was lost. Properly, utterly lost. My adventurous spirit, which usually bounced around inside me like a trapped firefly, had dimmed to a faint flicker. All I wanted was the warmth of my mother’s fur and the soft rumble of her purr.

Just as a tiny, pathetic mew escaped my throat, a shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom. It was a fox, long and lean, with eyes that gleamed like polished amber. I’d seen foxes before, of course, darting through the undergrowth at the edge of our garden, but never this close, never this… intent. My fur prickled.

“Well, hello there, little one,” the fox said, his voice a silken caress that made my whiskers twitch. He moved with a fluid grace, circling me slowly, his gaze never leaving my face. “You seem a bit far from home.”