Dawnlark Plains hair of the dog

At two months old, River could not have understood what the scene before him meant as he drew up sleepily alongside his sister. He knew only the grief he felt coming in waves from the older wolves around them— only the unnatural way his father's chest had gone still. The boy crept forward, slow at first.
He might have never approached. The young Corten could not fathom anything so terrible happening to his parent, but he knew from his mother's gasping breaths that this must be the case. It terrified him. The rawness in the air around him pushed the pale boy forward nonetheless, and he bolted past his mother and uncle to push himself desperately against his too-still father. The coldness immediately felt wrong— panic arced through his chest and he wailed, knowing this was not right. But he was rooted, unable to tear away; he turned imploring eyes first to the big grey wolf, then to his mother, bubbling, broken whines escaping him; help, he wanted to beg of them, but could not make himself speak. Why weren't they helping? Didn't they care about dad?