Whitebark Stream And maybe my story can have a happy end

surya, too, liked the spring. he was a child of the new season, after all, as many wolves were. his earliest memories had been filled with blooms and bees and butterflies, a bright young sun and an endless blue sky. aromatic rain, fledgling robins. . .

all right, he replied slyly to her challenge, eyes narrowing to amused slits. he took off running, aware that he had a great deal of speed (he always had outpaced his siblings, and any challengers along the coast). deftly navigating the open field, he heard the stream ahead and picked up the pace—

and promptly tumbled out of the weeds and onto the shoreline, getting a mouthful of damp earth in the process.

pah! surya spat, shaking his head to clear the sudden wave of surprised embarrassment. he cast his eyes to aphrodite, wherever she may be, looking sheepish. ah. . .can we call it a draw? he asked, layering plenty of sarcasm over his wounded pride.