Whitefish River tonight i'll have a look and try to find my face again

As a young child, he'd often run to his father for comfort when something distressed him — a bad dream or a loud noise, or the sting of Eventide's teeth in his scruff. He'd bury himself in the thick expanse of his fur and pretend nothing else existed for a few moments. And it helped — until his father died, and that sense of peace died with him. So he'd sought it in his mother, until she withdrew into her depression, and then in the embrace of Aditya, his siblings — until they, too, had turned away from him, and suddenly his whole life became a hunt for even just a hint, any tiny sliver of that safety somewhere in the world.
He never found it until he met Evergreen. In this moment, all he can think about is how badly he wants that — to turn back and perhaps hear words of comfort, or feel the warmth of his touch; a childlike hope from a boy still stuck in his childhood in many ways. But he's certain his friend would have none of that for him now. Only disgust, surely. The thought leaves him cold and hollow inside, and he's deaf to Evergreen's plea. Blind and unthinking, he instinctively seeks the place most associated with that sense of comfort. He only stops when he feels his fur brushing the walls of the tree den, curling himself into a tight ball without a single moment of pause.