Willow Meadows's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Willow freezes mid-step when the fox stumbles out from the underbrush and drops at her feet. The animal's sides heave. Her lips pull back in a weak snarl, showing teeth. But she doesn't run. She can't. Blood mats the fur along her injured side, and her three legs tremble with the effort of simply staying upright. Willow lowers herself to the ground without thinking. She moves in fractions. Her knees touch earth. Her hand slips into the canvas bag at her hip. The fox's snarl grows louder, but the sound is hollow, desperate. Willow's fingers find the small tin of salve she mixed yesterday in the sanctuary—yarrow and comfrey, steeped in oil. She sets it between them on the dirt. Then she shifts back. Just an inch. The fox's yellow eyes track her, wild and bright with fear. Willow waits. Her breath slows. Her body stills. For the first time in days, the fox doesn't try to flee.