Redhawk Caldera Life could have been different

He'd grown quiet in the wake papa's death. Quieter, for he'd already been a child of little words. He didn't often stray far from his family, wide eyes watchful of Bronte and Ponyboy, trailing after them as though they might lay down and never wake up, too.

Today, though, he'd lost track of them both, and he wandered alone, like a forlorn stray that life had kicked too many times already. He stayed where the leaves could shelter him, but far enough from the shadows he could see if wicked eyes stared back at him from within.

But it wasn't wicked eyes that found him, nor anything that lurked in the shadows. In fact, the stranger seemed strangely familiar. Maybe that's what rooted him in place, claws clutching the earth, his voice a squeak, and a shock rippling down the length of him.