Firestone Hot Springs hanging in my infant air, waiting

set for morning of July 5

when he had gotten lost among the fireflies, he'd followed the river home. that had worked for him. and now, he followed the river. . .but it looked different. he'd taken a wrong turn, somewhere along the way. somewhere in the space between meeting the dark-headed wolf and now, he had lost all grip on the world around him.

and he ought to be terrified. or at least excited. really, though, cam felt empty. the grief from before had left him and left him with nothing in its place; any kind of joy or fear or anger or sorrow was gone. replaced with nothingness.

at least the steam rising in the distance was interesting and different enough to catch his attention, otherwise he might have followed the bigger river to the ends of the earth. he peeled off, heading toward the shimmer on the horizon, the rising sun glimmering among the fog. it grew warmer with each step, and the air filled with the most foul stench—his nose wrinkled—

and, not looking where he was headed, he plunged forepaws-first into a hot pool of water, everything going suddenly dark and muffled.

pfft! he sputtered his way to the surface, gasping and mewling and churning his legs. it ended up not being so deep, though, and he was able to paddle back to the edge, where he scrabbled up and over and onto the earth, sides heaving with effort. panting, cam felt his heart slow over several minutes from a quick tattoo to something more normal, more stable.

where was he? what kind of place was this, where water (and so hot!) just came out of nowhere like that?