Whitefish River serendipity

Frolic scrubbed herself in the cold waters of the river. The stink of blood lingered, though it had been days—maybe even weeks—and this was hardly her first bath. More like your forty-third, her inner voice admonished, earning a grunt as she waded out of the water, her movements rife with agitation.

There was nothing to do but keep moving. She was nearly home now, though Frolic worried whether she should return there. She’d told the ridge wolves she was looking for Raveon’s attacker. What if they’d figured out the truth? What if they came looking for her? She’d done it for them, though Frolic was still guilty of a terrible crime. Would they make her answer for it?

She needed to wash herself again. Frolic came to a halt on the riverbank, splashing into the shallows without paying much attention to the current until it tried to sweep her legs out from underneath her. She braced them, though she pictured herself being carried away, dragged down by the undertow. Drowning.

Frolic blinked that image from her mind’s eye and shifted her gaze, her actual eyes suddenly fixing on a familiar face on the far shore.