Whitewater Gorge Floating

Game, set, tag. Colin marked successfully.

Finley skidded back, as if dodging a raging elk, but “it” had a new target. Derg stayed close, dropping into another play bow; right, of course, no need to run far. They were still on a journey after all; of course the back-and-forth chase would barely resemble a cross-plain hunt, as the “game” had in Finley’s youth.

It was as though they were but dumb, romping pups. Look at Derg, tongue lolling and tail wagging! at Colin, all his sad miasma nowhere to be found. The invitation for Finley to do the same extended its hand; she took it with the formality of a business meeting, but took it nonetheless.

And so Finley dropped to her elbows with the grace of a poorly-rigged 3d model. Should she raise her tail? Her focus darted from Derg to Colin to the lead couple—oh sweet sun what would they think, their subordinates running around like children like this, but this wasn’t about them—to Derg to Colin again. The best Finley could do, for now, was mirror their gestures, in her feeble attempt at what was cordially known as playtime—and avoid being tagged, yes. That too. Who knew a game could be so harrowing.