"Mama? Papa?" Sorrel called into the silver mist. The full moon hung heavy and white above the old willows. The branches creaked. Creak. Creak.
Then the mist parted. Where no water had been a moment ago, a whole river of blue light slid into the dark. The ripples crawled to the very edge of her paw. "You're new," she said.
Across the glowing water, four tiny orange shapes huddled under a willow. Sorrel lifted a paw over the blue. It rippled, cold and bright. "Too deep," she said. She yanked it back.
She tried the other foot. Splash! A blue wave slapped right across her nose. She hopped back, tail flat against the ground, ears pinned tight against her head.
Moonlight on the water shivered — left, right, left, right. A trembling silver thread skittered along the bank. She followed it, and the wet grass squished cold and sopping between her toes.
The thread of light ended at smooth, dry stones. Just beyond the gap, four little foxes blinked up at her in the moonlight. "SOREL!" they barked together.
One stone, two stones — she hopped the last gap and thumped down hard on the far bank. The blue water hummed low and steady behind her paws.
Sorel tucked her nose under her mother's tail. The others nuzzled close, warm and furry. Behind them, the blue river twinkled, then the mist swallowed it whole. Creak. Creak. Creak.