Starglow Basin ícaro

Among them is a boy, scarcely old enough to be pulled from mother’s breast and no nursing woman in sight. He watched and waited, often in horror. A leg all but splintered apart. If he was desert-bred he did not look it, with no reason to have ever heard of the cartel before.

The ocelote approaches, eyes tracing over the child, inhaling the fear that rolls off his little hide in thick scents.

“Hello,” he lowers his hips to the shale beside the boy. “¿Cómo te llamas?”