Stars glittered coldly on a forest stripped bare by a bitter leaf-fall. Shadows moved through the undergrowth—thin shapes, fur flattened by the chilly evening dew, slipping between the stems like water through reeds. The cats’ pelts did not ripple with muscle as they once had; instead, their fur clung to the bones beneath their thin frames.
The flame-colored tom leading the silent procession lifted his head and tasted the air. Even though nightfall had silenced the Twoleg monsters, their stench clung to every dying leaf and branch.
The cat took comfort from the scent of his mate beside him; her familiar scent mingled with the hateful Twoleg odor and softened its cruel tang. She matched his pace stubbornly, even though her faltering stride betrayed her long-empty belly and wakeful nights.
“Firestar,” she panted as they padded onward. “Do you think our daughters will find us when they come home?”
The flame-colored cat flinched as though he had trodden on a thorn. “We can only pray that they will, Sandstorm,” he said softly.
“But how will they know where to look?” Sandstorm glanced back at a broad-shouldered gray tom. “Graystripe, do you think they’ll know where we’ve gone?”
