Bearclaw Valley my moon, oh my moon

His brother excelled at this sort of game, disappearing into dark places and holding his breath until the moment passed. Lucas, on the other hand, was terrible at hiding. He was blessed with a winter-white coat that was useful in neither winter or summer thanks to the splashes of taupe that adorned him, so he stood out like a sore thumb in all kinds of weather. He was hefty and growing moreso each day, and that bulk was difficult to squish down, a stark contrast to how Wyatt or Piper could condense their wiry bodies. And there was the matter of laughter to consider: Lucas, bless his heart, could not stop giggling.

It crescendoed into a squealy laugh when Mona, speaking to the magick she employed, hypothesized that he was underground. There wasn't room in the little hollow for his tail to wag, but it tried nonetheless, and he scrabbled to push himself further down into the space. It was no good. He couldn't even turn himself around. Breathless, the Redleaf sucked in air and tried to hold it in to pretend he wasn't there, but even if his giggling could be contained—and it couldn't, for it spilled out in little snorts—the bright white of his haunch pressing out of the hole was clearly visible from all angles.