Sunset Valley a name she dared not find

Though he had not come too close, the scent of the woman's flight was heavy and metallic on his tongue. His ears swiveled back against his skull when she turned her back on him to drink; he was unwilling to take his eyes off her, but he worried (as he always did in the woods) that there was someone or something sneaking up on them.

Had she been running from something?

Her answer — tired — seemed to bode ill. It was with bated breath that he awaited some follow-up, only to have the question turned back.

"Me?" he asked, as if it were quite unthinkable. He checked his tone a moment later and answered, quick and almost contrite: "I'm — well. I'm doing well."

He took a few steps closer, and then, hesitating, circled wide around the woman to approach the water himself.

"I'm headed into the valley," he said, addressing the gently lapping waves rather than the wolf beside him. He stole a glance in her direction, taking her in in increments. "I'm looking for the place where my grandmother was born."

Another glance. A flare of his nostrils. She smelled like other wolves; other places.

"What brought you here?" he asked her. What brought you here so fast?