Arrow Lake every breath of borrowed time is heavy in my chest.

Everything happened quickly:

The otter bared its teeth and dropped the fish.

The boy bared his in response and lunged,
but did not snap quickly enough.

Then there was the body of his mother—charging forth, crushing the creature against the dirt.A muffled squeal.

A bloom of red where the otter bit in to the flesh of his mother's forelimb; she did not tremble, did not appear to notice at all really, and looked to Mesa expectantly. He was awed by the display. The little creature kicked and squirmed beneath the weight of the wolf's hold, and Mesa did not waste time.

He moved to intercept the creature where it was stuck, snapping at it and tugging at its flailing limbs; a crack denoted the break of at least one of them, and that sent the otter in to a frenzy of twisting. The boy was enthralled by the game that had sprung up in the wake of this hunt: he found it invigorating, not realizing that he was actually terrorizing the poor creature. It was food, right? It wasn't as intelligent as a wolf nor as useful, and it was destined to be killed—either for the crime of pilfering a cache or simply to fill his belly. The morality of the moment was lost on the child.

When he grew bored of his terrorizing he finally descended upon the creature and gripped it tightly with his teeth, crunching down and feeling the energy drain away, muted by death.