Blackfoot Forest cutting into flesh till the loop returns

Athalia hadn't meant to go so far from the den.
She wasn't sure how she got here in the first place. The trees contort, twist; they have faces, they have eyes, and she doesn't like looking at them.
She has not seen mother or brother in what she could only assume were a few hours, if she could tell time; and at some point, her stubby legs had taken her — here. Where was she? Where was here?
She is cold and she is hungry. The sun churns the sky to hues of scarlet and indigo; she is enthralled only momentarily. There are birds above her with starved eyes.
She is calm.