Redhawk Caldera Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine

Finley revealed a secret: Tiger wasn't actually her sister's name. Her actual name was a jumble of vowels and syllables that Wildfire didn't dare try to repeat. It sounded pretty, though Wildfire had difficulty associating the name with her memory of the wolf herself. She would forever be Tiger in the child's heart and memory, playful but fiercely smart.

"Frog?" she repeated with a blink. "But you're Aunt Flea!" she protested playfully. She had long ago developed the verbal skills to pronounce Finley's name but the nickname had stuck. She just couldn't picture her as a Frog. "You should name one of the babies Frog," Wildfire suggested sagely. That was three good names: an entire litter's worth, in Wildfire's experience.

The pup's belly rumbled suddenly—and loudly. Wildfire's eyes widened. "You have babies in your tummy and I have a mo'ster in mine," she declared sotto voce, then smiled. "Wanna go get some food with me, Aunt Flea?" She paused and pursed her lips. "Can you still fit food in there with the puppies?" she had to ask. She couldn't help but picture all the chewed meat plopping on the unsuspecting and unborn puppies' heads.