He clambered across the last rooftop, down a fence with a scratch and bump-and stopped short in amazement and fear.

Where the pile of rubble that had been his family's nest had stood… there was nothing. The spot was swept as clean as wind-scoured rock. When he had left his family that morning his mother had been standing atop the heap, grooming his youngest sister, Softwhisker. Now they were all gone.

He darted forward and fell to scratching at the mute ground, as if to unearth some secret of what had happened, but it was M'an-ground, and could not be broken by claw or tooth. His mind felt blurry with conflicting passions. He whimpered, and sniffed at the air.

The atmosphere was full of cold traces of fear. The smells of his family and nesting place still hung, but they were overlaid with the awful scents of fright and anger. Although the impressions were much jumbled by the action of time and winds, he could also sense who had done this thing.

M'an had been here. The Big Ones had lingered for a long time, but had themselves left no mark of fear or anger. Their reek, as always, was nearly indecipherable of meaning-more like the busy ants and borer beetles than like the Folk. Here his mother had fought them to the end to protect her young, but the Big,Ones had felt no anger, no fear. And now his family was gone.

In the next days he found no trace of them, as he had feared he would not. He fled to the Old Woods and lived there alone. Eating only what he could catch with his still-clumsy paws, he grew thin and weak, but he would not come to the nests of other Folk. Thinbone and other friends occasionally brought him food, but could not persuade him to return. The elders sniffed sagely and kept their peace. They knew wounds of this type were best nursed in solitude, where the decision to live or die was freely made, and not regretted later.