Whitewater Gorge The Door of Death is made of Gold

"i think that they have," kukutux murmured. for the first time since it had happened, there was no great agony in its telling. agana was kind, receptive, understanding. the ache of loneliness ebbed, abated somewhat in her spirit. though they had both faced death mere moments ago, it was as if she had always known this woman.

her laughter was soft, answering. kukutux worried her lip a moment, focusing instead on where the pair might rest from their ordeal. "perhaps," the duck began hesitantly, "there is no need for either of us to be alone any longer." agana wore no pack scent; the girl herself had no place to which she must belong. maybe rejection would come, but all the same she must know.  solitude, in its irony, had made the girl bolder.