Mark pushed the soft green ferns aside. There, tangled in wet muddy roots, a tiny bear cub squeaked and clawed at the dirt. He plopped right down beside it and held out his flat, muddy hand.
Slowly, the little paw uncurled. The cub looked up at him, nose twitching, one muddy paw still draped over the root. "Squeak," it said. Very small. Very quiet.
The cub dragged its good paw deeper into the dark trees, then stopped. Turned. Looked back. Stopped again. Turned again. Mark followed, soft footfalls on the thick moss.
Mark reached down, cupped the warm fuzz around the cub's middle, and lifted. The little bear went stiff as a board. Then — slow stretch, loose shoulders. The air smelled thick of rain-soaked pine.
A wide stream cut across the path, cold up to Mark's knees. He held the cub high on his shoulder and waded in. The water rippled brown and silver around his boots.
The cub wrapped one good paw around Mark's ear. Pfft — a tiny, startling sneeze. Mark splashed forward, laughing, water spraying the tall grass in both directions.
They rounded a bend, and the mama bear loomed — huge, lips pulled back, a low growl rumbling from her throat. Mark set the cub down. Stepped back. Held his arms open. Didn't move.
The growl faded. The mama bear lowered her great head, pressed her broad wet nose to Mark's outstretched fingers. A long, slow breath. Then she pulled back.
The mama bear nuzzled the cub close and shifted her massive body to clear the path. The little bear pressed against her side. Mark walked past. The path stretched wide ahead.
On the last stretch home, a single sticky berry was smeared across Mark's shoe. He kicked a small pebble into the loose dirt. Kicked another. Kept going.
