Thistle was crouched, blue eyes trained on a foraging mouse. She remembered to keep her abnormally long, bushy tail still and low so as to not brush against any leaves or bushes. She kept her breathing gentle, her chocolate brown and tufted ears twitching. The fox started stalking towards the rodent, who was still shuffling and nibbling on a small pile of grass seeds Thistle had carefully prepared as bait. One paw at a time wins the catch, her father always told her. He was out training the youngest member of their close-kin, Dragonfly — or as he liked to be called, ‘Coyote.’ Thistle would never understand why he wanted a name that was after one of their extreme rivals. Pah. He’ll learn.

  The young vixen was now two or three rabbit-lengths from the mouse. Pausing, she lifted her black nose and took a quick sniff to confirm she was downwind. The sharp scent of grass and earth filled her nostrils, melding with the coppery tang of the nearby foliage. Re-focusing on the prey, she coiled her legs like a spring, heart thumping loudly, drowning out the surrounding forest sounds. If she didn’t get this right, all her training would be for nothing.

  Then, in one fluid motion, she launched herself into the air. The soon-to-be prey’s happy squeaking was cut off when it caught sight of the flying fox, and in a heartbeat, its little body froze in fear before it attempted to scuttle away, only for Thistle to frantically twist in midair. Somehow, her outstretched forepaws landed squarely on the mouse. It let out only a brief shriek before she grasped the prey by its neck and shook it violently while biting down. She felt the neck break.

  Thistle’s triumphant “Ha ha!”, which was muffled by the prey in her chops, was interrupted by the sound of somebody bounding through the autumn leaves, yelping at everything that was even remotely interesting. Oh, of course it’s Dragonfly, she thought grumpily as he hopped towards her. Nonetheless, her tail was still wagging despite her annoyed expression.

  “Ooh, you get that by yourself?” Dragonfly nosed his snout on his sister’s catch, sniffing at it dramatically.

  “Yes,” she replied impatiently. “Now get your big fat nose off. This is for the winter stash. Not you or me or father — well, not yet.”

  Dragonfly let his little nose off the dead mouse, then protested, “Coyotes don’t have big noses!”

  “You — are — not — a — coyote,” Thistle gritted out through the mouse. Dragonfly pretended not to hear her, but she was sure he did. She turned around and trotted toward the kin’s hollow tree, where they made home. Her little brother tagged along, and she picked up the pace.

  They met Pinecone, their father, at the mouth of the sycamore. He was nosing around the base, snuffling around.

  “Whatcha doing?” Dragonfly voiced Thistle’s thoughts.

  “I smell a tod here,” came the nearly inaudible reply. “He was here recently. You should know that already.”

  “Well, our noses aren’t as developed as yours!”

  “That’s no excuse,” he said and didn’t look up at them.

  Thistle went to the back of their home to find the birch tree that had been behind their sycamore since last winter. Next to it was a pile of leaves and twigs, which were covering a medium-deep hole. She swept them away and dropped her mouse into the stash. Thistle remembered to carefully rearrange the covering over the hole. When she padded back to Pinecone and Dragonfly, she began helping her father in tracking down the male fox.

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  Pinecone had already found a lead. He walked along the scent trail, and Thistle cantered ahead of him, sniffing the air every few heartbeats with Dragonfly following them.

  As they ventured deeper into the vast forest, Thistle relaxed, despite their pursuit of a fox who had been snooping around in Pinecone’s territory.

  She heard the rushing of water nearby and turned her head to see a fast-flowing river, and imprinted the image of it into her head, as it could serve as a landmark so they could make their way back home after.

  Dragonfly was romping around, startling nearby birds into flight, squirrels up in their trees, and mice/rabbits into their underground dens.

  “Quit your stomping!” Thistle barked at him. Even Pinecone looked irritated at him, though his face didn’t show it. When Dragonfly paid her no mind, she added, “We’re on a ‘stealth mission,’ which you’re going to mess up if you don’t stop.”

  That caught his attention. He loved feeling special, especially in these situations when he felt like he was the one who could control whether or not the task was done right. “I am stealthy!”

  “So act like it.” She hesitated, then managed to spit out, “… Coyote.” That seemed to satisfy him. He started being quiet. Dramatically, of course. Ugh. With Dragonfly in the close-kin, peace was something everyone dreamed of.

  There were many twists and turns in the intruder’s scent track, winding vaguely around normal or gnarled trees, short or no grass, and little to no flowers. Why would someone come to our den if they live so far away? Thistle questioned. Just then, her gaze caught on a towering pine tree standing tall not far from the path they were on. She made sure that she would remember that, too.

  A few heartbeats later, the long scent trail grew stronger. The trio of foxes stopped, hearing rustling and soft squeaking. They all instinctively hunched over, crouching, as if hunting. Not even Dragonfly made any sound other than BREATHING.

  Pinecone twitched his left ear toward where the fox was supposed to be: somewhere in the woods at their side. The trio slowly turned, facing that direction so the tod couldn’t surprise them. Thistle swished her tail. She crept slowly to the strong, fresh scent of him and kept her eyes narrowed. She could now make out his appearance: a pale crimson pelt with a white underbelly, chest, ears, and undertail. He has black paws with big black spots on his legs that fade as they go up his limbs.

  She zipped into a bush, accidentally making it rustle, which of course alerted the crouching male — and, apparently, the rabbit he was trying to hunt. The prey perked up its long, folded ears, looked up from the fresh-looking grass they were eating, and without taking even a single glance at Thistle or the other male, it hopped away. The hasty thump of its hind legs against the dirt was all that sounded, as Thistle dared not breathe. She closed her eyes in frustration. She could only imagine the disapproval of Pinecone.

  The tod snarled at nothing in general. “That’s the third time —”

  That’s when the air grew thick and heavy, unnatural for the typical autumn day. Dark clouds gathered overhead, swirling around and warning of definite danger to come. Thistle and Dragonfly had no clue what was going to happen, and so did the other fox, whom Thistle had come to call him Stranger, because what else am I going to call him?

  She looked back at her brother. She didn’t care anymore if Stranger saw her, which Thistle guessed that he had. Dragonfly looked curious; he wasn’t crouching anymore. Her father looked stricken, still crouching and tail between his hind legs and cowering below the dark gray sky, copper eyes big and fearful. Thistle looked at him, straightening. She cocked her head and rotated her ears, trying to capture any important sound as indications to what was happening. She tried to taste the air by keeping her mouth slightly open. Then, everything seemed to happen in slow motion.

  Pinecone screamed, “It’s a whipping-gale!”