Whitewater Gorge I said the boy's no good.

Set around June 25th.

The river called to him. The water level was lowering day by day, but the fish were plentiful. Most were fat and fighting against the current. He enjoyed watching them struggle; within the hollow, Mesa took the time to rest for a few hours, then journey up-river until he came to a shallow place populated by other scavengers.

There were ravens in the trees, at least one vulture lingering on the warm drafts overhead that he could spy; he could smell bear and knew to be cautious. As he hiked the gorge, a pair came in to view: a mother and a cub.

The cub looked to be playing among some pine saplings and had snapped one. The mother — who Mesa watched with much more focus — fished with swipes of brazen paws at the riverside.

The scent of bear had her on alert—but it was the scent of wolf that had her lip curl up in distaste. The months had passed alone just as swiftly as any other. The pain did not fade as was expected with the realization of her lone status, despite a life bearing abandonment as the only true consistency.

Still, the silver arrow chided herself. The glint of copper donned upon her slender features catching the sun just as she slunk closer to the water edge, a respectful distance from the pale wraith and allowing him to remain between her and the mother bear.

Amber eyes unreadable as she studied him momentarily, the she-wolf lowered her muzzle, eager to quench her thirst from travels and to rid herself of her unease—eager, even, to keep her mind from straying thoughts and what she would possibly do next.