Jade Fern Grove see how they run. see how they run

His flinched when his mother cleared her throat; he had been so consumed by his own thoughts that he had paid no attention to what was around him. He had much to learn about using the senses he had left to perceive the world around him; but adapting was not on the child's defeated mind yet. He slowly uncoiled from his ball and turned his head to face her. Despite her efforts to speak to him as she would his siblings, he knew she was worried. He knew they all were. He also knew that his parents had been fighting.

He had little interest in leaving his den, but he mechanically obliged his mother's request. Perhaps because it was her, who had been there with him, with whom he shared a bond made deeper by shared trauma. He lifted himself into a crouch, and slowly, one paw after another he crept out, bobbing his head from side to side to feel for the walls of the den and any obstacles as he moved forward. He stopped when his nose brushed the plush furs of her chest. He need not even bow his head to catch the scent he referred to.

He wrinkled his nose. It was a strong, cutting odor that dominated his sense of smell. He did not recognize it. He lowered his head. Probing with his snout, he ran his muzzle down the side of her leg as a guide as he leaned in toward her paw. His tongue flicked out, drawing back at the sour taste that greeted it. "I don't know," he said listlessly. He did not even know what she wanted. "Can you not get it off?" he asked as he drew back and sat down.