Stavanger Bay Life happened.

From the very minute Kevlyn slid out onto the den floor, wrapped in a thin but strong capsule of flesh, he was whining. From his small, wet lungs, it was hardly more than a mumble of scratchy sounds, but on his level it was the shrieking of a scorned banshee. His throat felt raw not even five seconds out of the womb, but that didn't stop him from whining.

He kicked out with surprisingly strong little legs, striking something with one soft paw pad. He wriggled, eventually found his way to his stomach, and began to claw his way across the dirt.

Before he could get anywhere, he was named—Kevlyn, a handsome name—and placed alongside his mirror image. Some subtle link between them comforted the baby immediately, though every breath still loosed a faint whistle from his quivering nostrils. After a short while, he found his way to a teat and nursed vigorously, kneading Levi's side with one chubby paw and Julooke's belly with the other.