He crouches low, his tail perfectly still, and offers the root. The one-eyed one races forward and snatches it, then bounds away. The smaller one remains, chirping and cringing. She is not interested in food. She wants her kit. Her gaze remains on me and the bundle in my arms.

“This must be the mother,” Hemalo murmurs. “I think she is injured. Look at her arm.”

I lean over to see around him, and the female cringes back a step. It is clear she is favoring one side. I feel a surge of guilt as I watch her move. She is not using one arm at all. Is this why she left little Shasak in the cave? Because she could not carry him but was desperate to find something to eat? What would I have done in her situation? “Should we give her more roots?”

Hemalo looks at the huddled female metlak and then back to me. “She wants her kit, Asha.”

I feel like weeping. “He is happy with me. I can feed him.”

“I know,” my mate says simply. “But what would you do if someone took your kit?”

I think of my sweet Hashala, born so small and unhealthy. I would have fought anyone, done anything, climbed any mountain if it would have helped her. Hot tears spill from my eyes, and I hold Shasak closer. I do not want to give him up. I just want to love him and take care of him.

Shasak chirps.

The female echoes the chirp, edging forward another step. She reaches toward me with her good arm, and then draws back again, uncertain. She is brave, this female. She moves closer to the fire—and to the both of us—even though her mate has run off to eat. As she does, I see the fur on her bad arm is matted and filthy and crusted with blood. “We cannot send Shasak with her,” I whisper to Hemalo. “She is injured.”

“Then we must help her,” he tells me gently.

I nod, even though I feel like screaming. Shasak is so warm and heavy in my arms, the perfect size. He is a good kit. I do not want to give him back. Yet as the mother metlak stares up at me with big, liquid eyes, I know I will not be able to keep him. “How do we do this?” I ask.

“Give me another root,” Hemalo says, his gaze on the female.

I get another out of my bag and hand it to him. He offers it to the creature, but she only chirps and looks expectantly at me. Even her hunger cannot sway her from her kit. I have an idea, and I crouch on the ground, holding Shasak out. “Here,” I whisper. “Come see him.”

She creeps toward me, chirping hesitantly. As she moves, I can see her ribs through her thick, matted fur, and my heart aches. Why are they so hungry? Did the earth-shake send them far from their home, too? “It is all right,” I say in a low, soothing voice. “We are here to help.”

The female reaches for Shasak, even as Hemalo gets to his feet and moves to the fire. He gets a length of leather and dips it into the water I have warming in the pouch, and then approaches the female, squatting next to her. She cringes back, hissing.

I hold Shasak out again.

She reaches for the kit, and Hemalo reaches for her arm again. The female hisses once more, but does not run away. She growls low in her throat and hisses, but her long hands creep toward Shasak, and she touches him, making sure he is all right.

“Do not let go of the kit,” Hemalo murmurs to me as he begins to dab at the terrible wound on her arm. “If you hold him, I think she will stay long enough to let me help her.”

I nod, and my gaze meets the mother metlak’s. Does she understand that I am trying to help her? That I want nothing more than to love and care for her kit? Perhaps she does, because she does not snatch him from my grip. She strokes his fur and chirps at him, while Hemalo cleans the wound. Sometimes he hits a sore patch and she turns to hiss at him, but she does not move away.

“Is it broken?” I ask him as he continues to wash it.

“I do not know. I do not think they have a healer.” He looks concerned.

A terrible thing. I have never thought about how precious Maylak is to our tribe—I have always harbored a little resentment for her because she did not save my Hashala. But how much worse would we be without a healer? She worked tirelessly to heal Pashov in the cave-in. She has watched carefully over the births of so many kits and fixed many wounds, all without complaint. To have no healer at all must be that much more dangerous. I wonder if the female and her mate have a tribe or if they are alone. Perhaps that is why they are starving. Perhaps her tribe died in the earth-shake.

“Her arm will need to be sewn,” Hemalo murmurs to me. “The flesh is badly torn. Do you think she will sit still for that?”

I stare at him, aghast. “Who will do that? You?”

He shrugs. “I am good with an awl. Unless you wish to do it?”

I do not. Just the thought makes my stomach churn. “Will she sit still?”

“We will use intisar to numb it and hope she does not notice.”

“And if she does?”

“You and I wear a few new scratches.” He gives me a faint smile. “If we do not, though, her arm will not stay clean.”

I nod slowly. “There is intisar in the baskets.” It is one of the few plants that the metlak did not eat.

For the rest of the morning, we tend to the wounded female. It takes time to chew up the intisar roots and longer still to slather the wounded arm so it can be numbed. As Hemalo works, I make soothing sounds and stroke Shasak’s furry head, and then stroke the female’s head as if to suggest that we are friends, that I am taking care of her. I offer the root again, and she takes it, chewing frantically even as she touches the kit in my arms over and over again. She seems to feel that if she can touch her kit, that all is well. She hisses at Hemalo as he sews her arm, but otherwise ignores him. Occasionally I see a shadow pass in front of the cave entrance, and that tells me that the male is outside, waiting, but not brave enough to come inside. Hemalo is careful with the female metlak, taking care of her wounds as if she were his own, and stitching the flesh as tight as possible. He rubs more intisar paste on the wound when he is done and wraps the arm in a length of leather, tying it off at the wrist. The female hisses at him and immediately tries to chew on the ties. Hemalo adds more paste to the outside of the leather, giving me a rueful look. “If we make it taste bad, perhaps she will not be in such a hurry to eat it.”

It seems to work; the female chews again and then makes a face, her tongue flicking over and over again as she tries to get rid of the numbing, foul intisar paste.

“What now?” I ask.

“Now,” he says, and his voice is incredibly gentle, “we should give her her kit back.”

My heart aches. I have to swallow the knot forming in my throat. “I do not want to. I want to keep him.”

“I know. But would you want someone to keep your kit from you?”

I would not. I slowly hand him over, every bone in my body protesting. The female immediately snatches him from my grip with a surprising ferocity, hauling him against her chest. She scuttles backward, hissing at us one last time before racing out into the snow. I hear a couple of angry hoots and calls from her mate, and then they are both gone, leaving only their stink behind.

My heart feels as if it is breaking all over again. The cave is silent. The blanket I cradled Shasak in is empty in my arms. It should not hurt as much as it does, and yet I feel hollow and so alone all over again. I cannot stop the tears from falling down my cheeks.

“Asha, my mate,” Hemalo murmurs, such tenderness in his voice. He comes to my side and puts his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close against him. “It is all right to be sad.”

I sob against his shoulder, burying my face against his neck. I ignore the excited hum of my khui, because my heart hurts too much to think of such things right now. I think of Shasak, so small and trusting in my arms…and the way his mother snatched him back and raced away from the cave. All we tried to do was help her. Will she have enough milk to feed him? Will she discard him again to go hunting, and this time it will not be someplace safe because we are in their cave? My heart is full of worry and sadness, and I cannot stop weeping.