Hazel Boonton counted seven boonie buns huddled under a thornbush, and not one of them had a warm place to sleep. She had promised them a colony. She wanted every scattered warren in Karridale's forests joined into one, safe and hidden. But promises did not keep the cold off small backs. Frost already crusted the tips of their ears. A hawk cried somewhere above the trees. The buns pressed flat against the dirt. Hazel felt her own heart hammer. She had gathered these seven over three long days, coaxing them out of hedges and ditches. Now she had nowhere to put them. One more night in the open, and the hawk or the cold would take at least one. She remembered a slope she had passed at dawn. An old warren stood cut into the earth there, rounded and clover-shaped, its round windows dark. Abandoned, she had thought. But abandoned meant empty, and empty meant shelter. "Follow me," Hazel said. "Stay low. Move when I move." She led them across open ground in short dashes. The hawk circled twice. Each time, Hazel froze, and the buns froze behind her. Her legs shook. Then the clover-cut door rose ahead, its wooden frame swollen with damp. She pushed. The door held. She threw her shoulder against it, again, and the latch gave way with a crack. Inside, the air was still and dry. Roots laced the ceiling. The burrows ran deep and branching, dug for far more than seven. Hazel's breath caught. This was not a den. This was room for a whole colony. The buns crept in behind her, sniffing the packed earth. One curled at once into a hollow near the wall. Another followed. Hazel walked the tunnels, counting chambers, and stopped at a round window near the back. Outside, in a clearing she had not seen from the front, stood something impossible. A shape lay coiled among the trees, scales catching light in bands of every color. Wings folded against its back. It was a dragon, and it was watching the warren. Hazel's stomach dropped. The buns were safe from the hawk and the cold now. She had won that. But she had led seven small lives into the front yard of a creature that could swallow them whole. The dragon lifted its head. Its eyes found the window. Found her. Hazel stepped back from the glass and pressed her paw to the door she had just broken open. She could not fix the latch. She could not run seven cold buns back into the night. They were inside now, and so was she, and the thing in the clearing had already seen them. She turned to face the tunnels full of sleeping buns. Whatever the dragon wanted, she would meet it here. This warren was theirs now. She would not give it up.

Morning came, and the buns were hungry. Hazel counted the last of the clover she had carried in. Three wilted stems for seven small mouths. The stored food in this warren lay in a root cellar past the front door, and the front door faced the clearing. The dragon still lay there, its scales shining in bands of color. One way out. One way to the food. It sat between them and both. Hazel pressed her nose to the round window and studied the beast. It had not moved all night. It had not clawed the door or breathed fire. It only watched. A hunter would have struck by now. She decided to test it. She eased the broken door open and stepped into the cold. Her legs shook. The dragon lifted its head, and its eyes fixed on her. Hazel held still. She spoke, though her voice cracked. "We have young ones inside. They will starve. I only need to reach the cellar." The dragon did not lunge. It tilted its head, the way a bird studies the ground. Then it did something Hazel did not expect. It shifted its long body to one side, clearing the path to the cellar door. It was making room. Hazel did not trust it. But hunger pushed harder than fear. She darted for the cellar, hauled the hatch open, and dragged out a bundle of dried roots and grain. The dragon watched every move. It never reached for her. When she turned back, something small burst from the trees. An orange kitty bounded across the clearing, tail high, and skidded to a stop at the dragon's foot. It rubbed its ginger head against one great claw and purred loud enough for Hazel to hear. "You know this cat," Hazel said. The dragon lowered its head to the kitty. She understood then. The beast was not guarding a hunting ground. It was tame, or near it, and this clearing was a home it shared. A pink shape trotted out next, a shaggy dog with a fluffy coat, sniffing toward the warren's door. Behind them, past the trees, Hazel saw the corner of a small pink cabin with a covered porch. People lived here. This was not wild land. She had led seven buns into someone's yard. The kitty trotted to Hazel and sniffed the grain in her arms. It did not hiss. It looked back at the cabin, then at her, as if it wanted her to follow. Hazel carried the food inside and fed the buns. They ate fast and warm. She had won the food. But now she knew the truth of this place. The abandoned warren was not abandoned. It belonged to whoever lived in that pink cabin, and the animals here answered to them. Soon those people would learn seven buns had moved into their ground. Hazel had to decide what to tell them before they came asking.

By afternoon the buns were fed and sleeping in the deepest chamber. Hazel meant to spend the day thinking of what to say to the cabin folk. Then a door banged shut across the clearing. Wheels crunched on frozen ground. Through the round window she saw the pink cabin's porch. A figure climbed the steps, arms full of bundles. The owner had come home early. Hazel had no plan and no time to make one. She looked back at the warren floor. Root peelings lay scattered near the entrance. Grain husks dusted the packed dirt. Small pawprints crossed the threshold and pointed straight to the sleeping chamber. Any glance inside would tell the whole story. Seven buns had moved into someone's ground, and the mess proved it. Hazel worked fast. She swept the peelings into a pile with her forepaws. She pushed the husks under a loose root by the wall. But the pawprints stayed pressed in the dirt, and the door hung broken, unable to close. Outside, the shaggy pink dog trotted from the trees. It sniffed the warren door, then swung its head toward the cabin and barked. Once. Twice. The figure on the porch stopped and turned. Hazel's heart slammed. The dog was calling its owner straight to the door. She did the only thing left. She stepped out into the cold and stood in plain sight. If the owner was coming, Hazel would meet them on her own feet, not be dragged out of hiding. The dragon lay in the clearing where it always lay, its rainbow scales catching the low sun. The ginger cat sat curled against its side. The figure came down the porch steps. Hazel could not make out a face, only a shape crossing the frozen yard. The dragon lifted its head. Then it did something that stopped the figure short. It rose, spread one great wing, and lowered it like a curtain between the cabin and the warren door. It shielded Hazel from view. The figure called out a word to the dragon. A name, maybe. The dragon did not move. It held the wing steady over the warren, over Hazel, over the sleeping buns inside. The dog stopped barking and sat. Hazel understood. The dragon was not hiding her out of cruelty or trick. It was buying her time, the way it had cleared the path to the cellar. But a shield was not a welcome. The owner now knew something crouched behind that wing. Hazel had lost her secret. She had not lost her life or the buns. The figure stood still in the yard, waiting. The dragon would not hold its wing forever. Hazel drew a breath of freezing air. The choice was gone. She would have to walk out from behind the wing and speak. Whether this cabin became a home for a whole colony, or the end of one, depended on the next words she found.