Thistle scrambled higher, paws gripping the wildflower stem, until his back leg gave way. He tumbled deep into the hollow beneath the wooden fence. Dandelion seeds drifted down like yellow snow as he pressed his belly flat against the cool, dark earth.
A pair of small hands reached down and wrapped Thistle inside a soft fleece sweater. Warm fingers stroked between his ears as he was lifted upward. The sudden brightness made him squeeze his eyes shut.
Thistle nibbled clover from the girl's palm on the kitchen table. Late-afternoon warmth hummed through the window. He kept his distance and watched every move she made, ears stiff and alert.
At midnight, Thistle hammered his paw against the bottom of the screen door. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. His leg still ached, and he couldn't leap the way he used to. He wanted to go back to the garden.
The girl opened the garden gate at dawn. Her footsteps were silent on the dew-soaked grass. From the fence line, Thistle saw her for the first time since he had left the house. He took one clumsy hop toward her, then another.
His sore leg trembled but held. Each hop brought him closer to the wildflowers, closer to her. Thistle thought about how far he had come since the hollow, since the darkness.
Thistle reached the wildflowers right at her shoes and stopped. He let out a long breath that ruffled her socked toes. She sank down slowly, fingers hovering, and whispered, 'Hello, little one.'
Thistle pressed his wet nose into her palm. The garden hummed around them — bees in the clover, wind in the fence posts, the quiet sound of two friends beginning again.
