Wild Berry Meadow pestilence-stricken multitudes

It was by chance that he found Frosty, that day, that afternoon, in the meadow.
 
Not luck. Not purpose. Not fortunate happenstance.
 
Just—
 
Chance.
 
Like nature’s idea of an unholy joke.
 
“Frosty.” He called when he saw him, his tone flat, the bare bones of acknowledgement. No hello. No well wishes and ‘I missed you’ and ‘I hope you are okay’ to pepper the air with. Just his name. Nothing more, and nothing less.
 
And when he saw that he was alone?
 
“No entourage today?” The word entourage was spoken with a sneer, subtle and slight but still there, his lip halfway raised.
 
He stopped, several lengths away, posture low and slouched, and his shoulders rolled forward.