Cora sat on her bedroom floor and sketched a rabbit in her leather travel journal. She tucked the book into her backpack and headed out. Today she might see a red flicker.
Cora pushed through tall grass and followed a bright red flash deeper into the woods. The bird dipped low, then vanished. Something warm brushed against her boot.
Cora froze. Her breath caught. Through the branches she caught a flash of red wings, then nothing.
A fox sat on a mossy log. Amber eyes locked on hers. Tail curled neatly around its paws.
She slowly lowered her backpack. Opened her journal to the blank page at the end. Ready.
The fox hopped down from the log and walked right up to her. Then it lay beside her and rested its chin on her knee.
Cora started to draw — a quick sketch of the fox, still and patient, watching her every stroke.
The fox blinked slowly. Cora smiled. The graphite moved across the page — ears, whiskers, a curved tail.
When she looked up, the fox was still there. Watching. Waiting.
Cora finished the sketch. She closed the journal and tucked it into her backpack. Time to go home.
She walked back through the tall grass, the backpack heavy with a new drawing. The red flicker was real.
That night, Cora placed the fox sketch in her journal — right beside the rabbit. Two friends, one book.