Firestone Hot Springs garmi

She had crouched in the den for three days after mama stopped talking. She would have stayed longer, spiraling deeper and deeper into frozen terror, if nino had not come and called her outside. The sun had hurt her eyes, but then she could press her face into nino's dark chest and breath in his warm, sunlight scent.

He asked her what had happened. She thought he had, anyway. His voice felt very far away.

"Ella dejó de respirar," she said. That hadn't been good enough. Nino wanted to know more but she didn't know any more than that. "No sé," she told him, and then she cried the words so that he would stop asking, and they hadn't talked much more, after that.

They left mama in the den. Nino led her a long way. ("Donde vamos? Nino?" and, "Muy lejos de aquí. Cálmate, mija.")

They went far, as nino had said. Through mountains and raging creeks. ("Nino, tengo frío," and, "Lo sé, mi amor, perdóname.)

Her legs grew long. Her ribs grew sharper. ("Qué estás buscando?" and, "Nino? ... nino?")

They were very quiet, then. A few days later, he showed her where to look for grubs in the soil.

She was still frail, stick-thin when they came to the wilds.

"Mira."

Mezcal looked. There was a dark shape coming toward them through the billowing white steam. Her fur stood on end. She crouched in nino's shadow —

And then stood ramrod straight, and then spun in a circle, breathing fast —

"Nino?" she cried,

But she was alone.