Hoshor Plains The way you laugh sounds like

There was something almost hazy, even singsong, to the youth’s murmuring on sleep. Was he poisoned? But Finley bit her lip as, with her next question, he became lost in thought. Points for trying. When his focused scrunch drooped into sadness Finley almost held her breath, wondering if perhaps he’d seen something horrible—and his answer, when it came, gave no indication either way.

Why couldn’t he remember indeed. He turned to her, apparently not meaning the question hypothetically, and Finley frowned. She knew nothing about this wolf, where he’d been, what he’d seen; was any of it a cause for concern? Because something’s not right with you, she thought, but provocation seemed… inadvisable. Who knew what to expect from a wolf in this state.

He saw something; he came from the mountains; he was tired. Tired. Finley offered the best she could: “You could have been dreaming,” she said, matter-of-factually. “Or in some other daze.” Idly she wondered how much he’d recall of this encounter by the time the next day broke.