Bitterroot Valley who's never left home, who's never struck out?

She felt so stupid. Why hadn't sure turned back as soon as she'd turned her ankle in the marsh? It was just that the cold was so bitter and arresting, she hadn't even realized she was injured instead of just sore.

Angel had tucked herself into a bed of dried, crunchy grass to rest. The bloody stick that'd she'd pulled from her paw lay glinting, wetly, on the hardpacked earth beside her. The bloody hole it'd come from was between her toes, and extended (a far as she could tell, from the aching in the joint) up to her wrist. She was grooming it as best as she could, laving away blood as it trickled free. It seemed she wouldn't be bleeding out from this injury, but only time would tell if infection would take her.

And it was definitely, definitely too sore to walk on for very long. She'd found that out the hard way when the limb had given out on her, and she'd rolled the opposite shoulder in an effort to keep from falling flat on her face. She was officially lame, and there was no way she was making it back home in time for supper. No way she was making it home at all, in fact, unless she got help.

Swallowing down her tears, Angel Oak tipped her head back and howled. She was somewhere close to other wolves, she knew — she just had to hope that they were friendly.

For @Sega or @Svana or @Twitch or whoever gets here first!