Whitefish River old friends, sat on their park bench like bookends

He did not have to wait long: someone finally appeared, a dark shape in the dim light. As he drew closer, Phocion began to take in his appearance, the shag of gray fur, gone lighter with age, the medium build. . .  The wolf stopped at the other edge of the water, and called out a greeting--and damned if his voice were not familiar, too.

"Hello," he called back tentatively, but as he said the word, a memory began to rise up in his mind. A cave, a man, a. . .name? In fact, if it hadn't been for that unique name, and the nicknames he had attached to it, Phocion might have never recalled him.

"Gr. . .Grayday," he guessed, grappling for the name at first but finding it finally, familiar, on his tongue. "Gray. . .or Day. Right?" He gave the other a smile, an expression that hadn't reached its full potential since he had come back to Teekon. "Do you remember me?"