Storm Watch Butte A little party never killed nobody.

they share a look. soto cannot help but notice the way the young boy presses to the flank of the amazon. the single gesture is enough to solidify soto's suspicion their liaison in the trees had produced plenty of fruit.

he stops advancing. the way they crowded each other spoke of tension soto did not wish to test. studying the boy, his gaze turns to towhee when she speaks again -- only one word out of the string of them decipherable.

tierra. sangre's name, soto knows. his gaze is hopeful: does she know where tierra has gone?

ears forward, soto speaks. donde esta ella? sangre -- tierra. la has visto?