Wheeling Gull Isle I got the woofers in my Jeep

If there was one place Sockeye thought he ought to check for his brother, it was the island. They'd come from an island, after all, and although Sock had little desire to strand himself once more, finding his brother seemed worth the inherent risk of wading across the sandbar. If it disappeared behind him, he could always swim.

After battling the waves, Sockeye dragged himself onto the island's shore, giving in at once to the urge to shake out his pelt. Clumps of wet, quicksilver fur clung together to form quills all up and down his spine, but Sockeye didn't notice this as he paced further up the beach, nose twitching as he took in the scents of the pack that lived here. His brother did not seem to be among them. This left the male with a sinking feeling in his chest, but it was more resignation than disappointment. He'd known it was a long shot, but it still seemed a shame to have used all that time and engery only to get nothing in return.

Sockeye sat down on the beach and peered up into the tall grasses and the woods beyond them. There didn't seem to be any luck for him here, but he wished there was freshwater somewhere nearby that he could taste before heading back into the surf. For now, he simply rested, trying not to think about how long it would take to get back to the mainland.