Pax. Jon Klassen

      He woke fully then. Curled against him, snoring, was the vixen’s brother. Runt whimpered and fluffed his tail over his snout, still asleep.

      Pax pulled himself up sharply. He had no practice at dominance, but the situation left him no choice. Go back to your den. When Runt tried to nestle into his chest, Pax nipped him on the shoulder.

      Runt shook himself awake and rolled to his feet. He didn’t duck his head in submission, and he made no move to leave. Play, his position invited instead.

      In other circumstances, Pax would have welcomed the good-natured little fox’s company. But he had no interest in tangling with Bristle again, and in fact he had no interest in anything besides getting back to his humans.

      Pax fetched the plastic soldier he’d cached and dropped it as an offering, then warned him away again. After a final pleading look, Runt took the toy in his mouth. Pax followed him out and watched until he slipped into a hole a few tail lengths away.

      When the thunderstorm had hit – short but violent, with whole sheets of sky splitting open in wrathful cracks – Pax had worked his way into the shallow entrance of an abandoned den not far from the one Bristle shared with her brother before taking measure of his surroundings. Now, in the pale light of the half-moon, he took a moment to survey them.

      The hillside faced south. Here the roots of the trees seemed to claw at the sandy soil like the brown knuckles of clenched fists. Tucked among them, Pax saw three den entrances.

      Above this hillside, the forest rose to the north and west, back to the road. Below, a vast grassy valley sloped away. It was an ideal location: the hillside perch provided little cover for approaching predators, while the line of trees protected the foxes from the north winds. The meadow smelled abundantly of life.

      As Pax took all this in, a tension deep within him loosened. It was the same way he’d felt as a kit when, after he’d pushed his food dish to the farthest corner of his boy’s nest room three times, Peter had finally understood to leave it there. Away from the cold north wall, and with a view of the door where the father entered, sometimes in anger. Safe.

      But this place was not safe for him. Bristle had warned him that in this same meadow lived an older fox and his mate. He was already facing a challenger from outside and would not tolerate the presence of another lone male. And just then Pax saw a movement below him – a broad-shouldered alpha with black and grey fur emerged from the brush halfway down the slope and marked a sapling beside him. The big fox began to groom, but with a paw still to his ear he suddenly pricked his snout into the breeze. Pax bolted up the hill and plunged into the forest undergrowth.

      He picked up his own scent easily although it had rained hard. Stopping only for quick licks of water from the leaves, he followed it back to the road.

      There, Pax caught the lingering scent of the military transport caravan from the day before, but no other traffic had passed since then. He settled himself on the fallen oak trunk again to wait.

      Morning brought the shimmery buzz of insect clouds and the chatter of waking birds, but still no traffic sounds on the road. As the sun rose hot and dry, it burned off the rain droplets that had hung from every green shoot.

      Pax was aware of his hunger now, but his thirst was worse – he’d had nothing to drink since leaving his humans’ house. His throat was parched and his tongue swollen and thick. He felt dizzy whenever he shifted his position. A hundred times a thin scent of water drifted past him, but he never considered abandoning his post for its promise. His humans would come back here. He dug his claws into the wood and strained for the sound of a vehicle on the silent road. An hour passed, and then another. Pax dozed and woke and remembered, dozed and woke and remembered. And then the wind brought news of something approaching.

      A fox. The same male he’d seen earlier, the one Bristle had warned him about. The fox’s gait was deliberate, showing neither hesitation nor wasted energy. The way his greyed coat draped his frame announced that he was old. As he drew close, Pax saw that even his eyes were clouded grey with age.

      After offering his scent, Grey settled himself on the grass beside the fallen trunk. He made no move to elevate himself, indicating that he meant no threat. You carry the scent of humans. I lived with them, once. They are approaching.

      A sudden hope rejuvenated Pax. Have you seen my boy? He described Peter.