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

He was almost unnervingly attentive while she spoke. She was accustomed to the much more dynamic conversations she had with her village. The oddity of it made her tail twitch as if to reassure the man, or perhaps herself, that they could still be friends despite the language barrier. She worried, though, that she would not be understood, and that she might be unwelcome for that fact.

But he welcomed her, in a voice she likened on a whim to a waterfall — deep and rhythmic and sure.

"Thank you," she breathed, her tone firm and fervent. She flashed a broad but tired smile up at him as she hobbled forward, setting her shoulder against his. "I'll do what I can to repay the kindness," she assured him, stealing another glance up at his face. "My name's Angel, by the way."

Her paws ached and she worried, still, that she might die from this wound — but things were looking up. And this kindness made her heart feel full.

She was ready to be off — off to wherever he had come from, she supposed.