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Fueled by scraps, Tweed continued onward. Every inch of his body continued to ache, but he could not let himself give up. Not yet. Not when there was still an ounce of hope. He was not sure where that hope came from, nor how long it would last, but it lingered there, keeping him from throwing himself off a cliff, or letting himself inhale water until he stopped breathing. Tweed thought of all the different ways to die, but he didn't dare try any of them. That sliver of hope kept him alive.

He stumbled upon somebody by accident, and his ears pricked forward at the sight. This was no wolf with a sliver of hope. This wolf was full of it. Tweed blinked, staring at him a moment longer. He did not approach, not yet. He stood, he stared, he waited.