Thistle's claws dug into the willow branch while Moss gripped the far end. They yanked hard. "I was HERE first!" Thistle shouted. "NO, I WAS!" Moss yelled back. The branch groaned and snapped under their weight.
The branch dipped, groaned, and they both tumbled into the shallow creek. A splash whipped cold water over their striped snouts. They sat in the ripples, dripping and muddy. Moss grabbed a flat stone and flipped it into the water with a dull plop.
Moss paddled to the far bank without looking back. Thistle dragged herself to her flat rock on the meadow's edge. She pulled a dry leaf over her paws and faced away from the creek. Across the water, a stick thumped against a log. Thump, thump, thump.
She curled up but didn't close her eyes. Every ripple on the water looked like Moss's shadow. She counted them until they stopped moving. Pink morning light caught the willow's lowest leaves, illuminating the empty space where her friend had been.
Thistle nudged the edge of her flat rock to find a small grey stone wedged underneath. It was smudged with red crayon in a crooked smiley face. She turned it over in her black paws. The lines were pressed deep and lopsided.
The stone was warm where the sun had held it all night. She tucked it between her front paws and stood. The dry leaf rustled once behind her. Thistle carried the stone across the open meadow toward the willow tree.
She set the stone on the grass beneath the lowest willow branch. "Let's be buddies again," she said. Her voice wobbled on the last word. Willow leaves tick-ticked down onto the stone around it. A twig snapped on the far side of the trunk.
Moss stepped out holding two pebbles strung on a thread. He jingled them like a tiny clapper against his jaw. They both scrambled up the lowest branch, claws finding the same dark groove in the bark. Shoulders almost touching, they let go of nothing.
