Otter Creek brass knife sinks into my shoulder

Lonely was an awful word, but an awfully apt description. Dusty also would have accepted big or confusing, but lonely held a much more significant place in his psyche. They'd both been raised to know that lonely was the worst thing a coyote could be.

"C'mon," he said, ramming Meridian's shoulder with his narrow skull. "I'll show you where they are. We have to stand and holler for them, though. They're real particular about their space. Not like dad was, either."

Their father — Bourbon, and not the flower eater — had been as territorial a creature as any. But coming across an interloper usually meant they'd better show some belly and let him wallow all over them 'til they smelled like they belonged to him. Out here, intruders were killed — and not even eaten, sometimes!

"This way," he said, beginning to lead the way up into the mountains.