Hushed Willows there's a syncopated beat

"I'm sure," Dusty Rose said in response to her, I guess. Every place was beautiful in its own way. He imagined the icy north to be much like a cold, white version of the Red Desert. He wondered if they had water hunts, there.

They came to the point where he could draw no closer. The coywolf was embarrassed to be relegated to the outskirts of the family's dwelling, even knowing it was right and proper and perfectly normal. Nothing else about the Medeiros family seemed right or proper or normal, so he could not help feeling a little wrong-footed when he toed the line.

"I'm sure," he said again of the squawking toy, still sorry to see it go.

And then!!! The audacity!!! The coywolf's ears pinged to the top of his head once more. His expression remained perfectly polite, but on the inside, he was seething. To be welcomed after so long felt like so pointed a dig it was difficult for him to turn the other cheek. So he didn't. He said,

"Welcome to you, too,"

In as pleasant a tone as he could manage. And, Dusty Rose, being the actor that he was, managed very well indeed. He smiled at her, then, his tail whisking at his hocks, and then turned to trot off back the way he'd come. Only when he'd passed out of her line of sight would he sigh and deflate.