Sylvara Oakwhisper knelt at the riverbank and knew she could not cross. The little squirrel clung to her braid, its heart drumming against her cheek. She had promised to bring it home. Somewhere past this water stood the ancient grove where its lost kin still nested. She meant to reunite them. But the spring melt had swollen the river into a brown, churning flood. She studied the far shore. Purple-leafed trees leaned over the water, their yellow flowers trembling in the spray. That was the way to the grove. The nearest crossing, and the flood had swallowed it whole. Sylvara tested a step. The current tore the mud from under her boot and nearly took her. The squirrel chittered and dug its claws deeper. In her own form, one slip would drown them both. In her own form, she was too small for this river. She pressed her palm to the squirrel's head. "Hold on to me. Don't let go, whatever you feel." Then she called the change. Her bones thickened. Brown fur spread thick and shaggy across her back. Her hands became wide paws with black claws. She rose on four heavy legs, a bear now, broad and grounded. The squirrel scrambled up and buried itself in the fur between her shoulders. Sylvara stepped into the flood. The water climbed to her belly, then her chest. The current shoved hard, but her weight held her down. Her claws bit the riverbed and dragged her forward, one slow step at a time. Cold water surged against her muzzle. She kept her head high so the squirrel stayed dry. Midway, a log rolled out of the current and struck her flank. She staggered. The squirrel shrieked and slid. Sylvara twisted, caught it against her neck with her jaw, and planted her paws until the river stopped pushing her sideways. Then she pushed on. She hauled herself up the far bank and collapsed under the purple trees. Steam rose off her wet fur. The squirrel tumbled down her leg and shook itself, alive and furious and safe. Sylvara let the change fall away and lay in the grass as a woman again, breathing hard. They had crossed. The grove waited somewhere ahead. Then she saw the tracks. Deep prints pressed into the mud beside her own, larger than any deer, ringed with claw marks. Fresh. They came from upriver and led straight toward the purple trees, toward the grove. Something big had come this way before her. And it was still ahead, between her and the squirrel's home. Sylvara sat up and gathered the squirrel to her chest. The far bank was behind them now, the river uncrossable at her back. There was no going around. Whatever made those prints, she would meet it on the road to the grove.