Parlor Game

He could smell the acrid traces of the hunters. All of the others were gone; he’d called and called, knowing the hunters were deaf to his voice. The wind blew from the south, carrying hints of the warmth that lurked in the sun-drenched valley. He quivered with fear and skittered to the next bush.

The cover ended here. Bare rock above. He could flee no higher. And the lowlands were full of the smothering heat that the warmbodies loved so much. Why did they pursue him? He did not know.

He called again, but only the hunters’ booming voices answered.