Redhawk Caldera it is night, it is death, it's a trap, it's a gun

She had seen her Dad one last time. Mom and Ponyboy had too. She was sure that Boris knew, and if he didn't, he would soon.

What was it? A sign that everything was going to be alright? A symbol of his love? That he was there, with them, where eyes could not see?

The answer was perhaps, all of it.

It gave the teenager clarity. But also added another layer of confusion and heartache. To have seen him one last time. So real and close. But so brief. She hadn't even managed to hug him, to cry into the rugged warmth of his fur.

How was she supposed to cope, now?

She moved, numbly towards the borders. Her father's eyes distant and clouded. She only slowed to a standstill when she heard the quiet sobbing. The man from last night, at the den. The one who also called Bronco, Dad. 

Her eyes cleared. She felt a pull to him. If Bronco was his Dad, was he related to her, too? Surely he had to be. She padded closer softly, quietly. An air of unsureness about herself. Bronte forced herself to lay down in front of him, their positions mirrored.

"How? How do we heal from this now?" Her voice a shaken whisper, desperate for answers, but expecting none.