Luneshale Pass you keep sayin' that i'm nothing like my father

He hadn’t seen his mom in days. Bushtit missed her—pined for her, even—but he told himself it was past time to gain a little independence. At least sometimes, he thought a little guiltily as he strode along the sparse riverbed. He was over halfway to adulthood!

He actually expected Towhee to turn up here eventually, cross with him for leaving her on her own. But she hadn’t yet. Maybe he ought to be worried, though he remembered she’d lived for, like, a hundred years on her own before he’d come along. She’d be fine…

He caught sight of something that scattered his thoughts. Bushtit halted, then scrambled toward the familiar figure, crouched over something on the ground. He peered down to where Fiamma’s snout pointed but didn’t see much aside from a tiny sprout of green.

Hola, he said cheerily, happy to take an opportunity to practice his father’s tongue. ¿Que… pasta? Bushtit queried, unsure if that came out quite right.