Wild Berry Meadow I'm a stitch away from making it

Willowsong had frozen and nearly pissed himself at the sound of voices through the underbrush, and had spent the entire conversation simply quivering among the bushes. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, not really — but there wasn't much else to be done, when all he could do was linger and listen. He couldn't bring himself to flee, or to call out, or show himself. At the end of the day, Willowsong was a coward.
At least he'd forgotten all about his impending death by foreign berries (which, he would later realize, wasn't coming at all).
The spell was broken when he heard the rustling approach of one of the conversing wolves, and Willowsong immediately realized he hadn't retained any of what was said between them. He had no idea what this wolf's intentions were. What if they'd noticed him, and now this one was coming to chase him off?
S-stay back! He called shakily, scrambling a few steps back. He'd never been much of a strategist; maybe that was why he'd been chosen to go into medicine, instead. That seemed like a good call just now, when faced with the possibility of a fight, or worse.