Whitebark Stream A grass blade flashed with a gleam.

Something different happened that day. Little Winter did not take note of it until the morning's first feed left him full and content. He lay splayed on the den floor, tiny tongue poking between his lips as he waited for sleep to sweep him away again. Instead of the deep red hue that he saw each day, however, he found movement of bleary shapes before him.

He stared dimly at his blurred siblings, blobs of beige and ash, but he felt no fear or confusion. Winter cooed softly to himself, simply curious of this new development.