Redhawk Caldera Getting high and skipping class

Hotah huffed a low chuckle at her correction—our trophy—and dipped his head in a small, conceding nod. Fair enough. She’d earned that say.

Her joke earned a broader grin from him, warm and unforced. He didn’t answer it with words—just a soft shake of his head that clearly meant: you’re fast because you’re good, not because the world owes you anything.

When she signed we make a good team, Hotah’s eyes flicked to the buck, then back to her. A short, firm nod answered that.

He stepped to the carcass, gripped it by the shoulder, and hefted the weight up with practiced ease. Then he paused, glancing back at her with an expectant lift of his brow.

He signed, brief and sure:

-Help.-

Then:

-Carry back. Skin there.-