Sly Fox Sand Dunes you dj, i’ll drive

She answers with a levity that his unserious questions don’t really deserve. Bushtit arches an eyebrow, the skin of his face feeling puffy and tight. He wipes at his other cheek, wondering if the weird wolf noticed the wetness. She makes no mention of it and says nothing else as she moves toward the shadow cast by the tallest of the surrounding dunes.

She sets down the dead bird and asks a question that strikes Bushtit as out of place, though he can’t explain why it feels that way. It’s not a strange question unto itself, though the phrasing feels more like an interrogation than a conversation. The yearling shrugs his shoulders and pads closer to her again, noting the temperature difference in the air when he slips into the shade. It’s less stifling here, even though the dune also blocks the breeze.

I’m, he begins, prepared to offer his name just like always, when he gets a wild hair out of absolutly nowhere. Ravinder Bevli, he says, pulling the name out of his ass. Who are you? And if you don’t mind me asking, why do you look so different from any wolf I’ve ever met?