Moonspear I'm all out of thread-naming patterns

A few turns of the moon was a few too many for the young wolf. Would she survive? Most likely, yes, but she would be sure to complain the whole while. “I wish it’d go away,” she admitted. “Does it ever get better? Is it always this cold?” By next year’s time she’d have the appropriate coat, necessary for keeping her warm. But for now she would just have to deal, as much as the thought alone pained her.

“Can I stay with you, mama?” she had to ask. “Just until the cold goes away.” However long that would take, exactly.