Sly Fox Sand Dunes you dj, i’ll drive

The cryptic remark seems to stoke her curiosity. But when Damsel presses him, he shakes his head. He sniffs as more tears prick his eyes.

I don’t want to talk about it, he says a little throatily. I’d rather talk—and think—about something else. Anything else, really.

What he wants, suddenly, is some fresh scenery. Bushtit doesn’t want to think about his possibly dead sister or what that news might do to her namesake. He doesn’t want to risk bumping into anyone he knows or go anywhere that will remind him of any of this.

I think I’d like to go sightseeing to the south. I’ve never been further than the lowlands. I could use an adventure to distract me, he announces, apropos of nothing.

He gazes into the distance as he voices this proclamation, though his dark, slightly watery eyes flick to the hound’s face. They drop to the remains at her feet before bouncing back up to catch Damsel’s eye.

If you’re done eating, you could come with me. I wouldn’t mind some company, at least for a little while.