“Hello,” said the blue poison-arrow frog.
“Hello,” said the wolf.
The wolf sniffed at the humid, warm air.
“You look lost. Your undercoat is too thick for this forest,” said the blue poison-arrow frog.
“I am lost,” said the wolf. “It was winter, and snowing, and the blizzards were worse than Mother could ever remember, and there were no deer, no elk, no rabbit. And we found meat, but it smelled wrong, but Mother said to eat, and my pack did, but I couldn’t. They started whining soon, and their stomachs became bloated, and then they all died. Mother too. And I ran. When I reached the desert, I still ran. When I reached the ocean, I swam. And when I reached solid ground again, I ran.”
“But you’re not running now,” said the blue poison-arrow frog.
“No.”
The wolf stared at the tiny creature, enchanted by the smell of power and death he extruded.
“Yeah… I have to go,” said the frog, and he hopped off into the direction of the croaking that had just started up.
The wolf threw his head back and howled.
But the damp, thick forest blanketed the sound and only a whimper was heard.
